


Fear of the Water

by marcat



Series: Lover is Childlike: Finnick + Annie [1]
Category: Hunger Games - Fandom, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies), The Hunger Games (Movies) RPF
Genre: Action, Angst, Angst and Romance, Annie Cresta-centric, Cannon, Comfort, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, District 4 (Hunger Games), Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Finnick Odair-centric, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love Confessions, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prequel, Prequel: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, Prostitution, Romance, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Slow Romance, Soulmates, Teen Romance, The Capitol (Hunger Games), Tragic Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcat/pseuds/marcat
Summary: That awful restlessness I’ve been feeling – I was right. It is because of her. Because I can’t relax when she’s not close. I can’t think about anything else. I can hardly breathe.When did this happen? How did it come to this? Why didn’t I realize what was going on? It was slow and creeping, almost insidious, rolling around me like waves until one day I was drowning in it.I love her.“You’re safe.”“Finnick.” She whispers my name into my tearstained shirt.I love her.Finnick and Annie origin story set during and after the 70th Hunger Games.
Relationships: Annie Cresta & Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Finnick Odair - Relationship
Series: Lover is Childlike: Finnick + Annie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801999
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a rewrite of a very crappy fanfic I wrote when I was fifteen called Resistance. Hopefully this one is better!

(ANNIE)

“Annie,” a voice says. There’s something pressing on my shoulder. “Annie, wake up.”

I try to hide my face behind my hair. “Nooooo,” I moan, drawing out the word.

“Come on. It’s reaping day.”

I crack my eyes open. My twin brother Bosun is standing over me. He’s bathed and dressed already. Must have been awake for hours. His strawberry hair is combed for once, but bags and purple shadows hang under his blue-green eyes. I wonder if he slept at all.

He forces a smile. “I don’t know how you sleep so late. I can never sleep at all before the Reaping.”

The only reason I’m able to is because I stole a sleeping draught from our aunt’s medicine cabinet. She doesn’t know, of course – she’d have one of her episodes. Probably threaten to send Bosun and me back to the community home. But we’re seventeen now, and we can work full time now that we’ve finished school, and I doubt she’d be willing to part with our salaries. But it also means we can live on our own. Bosun and I constantly promise ourselves that day will come soon, but people usually only move out of their family homes when they get married.

My cousins and I help each other into our dresses and comb one another’s hair. One must look their absolute best on Reaping Day in case one gets called up. Don’t want the sponsors’ first impression of you to be in swimming clothes.

Adrie ties my hair up in a ribbon as I braid Coraline’s hair from behind. Coraline is nearly eighteen; Adrie is fifteen. We all qualify for the reaping, and even though a girl named Coastia Is set to volunteer, we’re still nervous wrecks. Everybody is.

My aunt Chelsea looks us all over one more time to be sure we’re presentable.

We don’t bother with breakfast since none of us will be able to eat anything anyway. We walk toward the pavilion where the reaping is held in relative silence. I give Bosun’s hand a quick squeeze before he joins his friends on the boys’ side of the crowd.

“Dodge got his hands on a bottle of rum,” Bosun says to me. “When all this is over, we’ll get drunk and go for a swim. Okay?”

I lower my voice and try not to move my lips too much as I speak. “Do we have to bring the cousins?”

“God, no. They’d ruin it.” Bosun gives me a quick squeeze. “It’ll be you, me, Dodge, and Ondine. And Gill, I think. And maybe a couple of Dodge’s cousins, but they’ll bring their own liquor.”

“I hate most of Dodge’s cousins.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll be drunk.” He goes off toward the boys’ side and I look around for Ondine. She’ll need somebody to hold her hand through all this, the awful memories it will drag up.

Ondine, who’s been with Bosun for as long as anybody can remember, is my best friend. Maybe my only proper friend – except for Dodge, I guess. Bosun’s the social one; as his twin, I can just insert myself into whatever relationships he has without putting in the work of getting to know someone and then his friends become mine.

Ondine’s sister Liffey was my proper best friend until she died of an infected cut on her arm in the arena last year. Ondine, already an orphan, is now totally alone except for Bosun, who she’ll probably marry in a few years.

“Annie!”

I turn at the sound of my name. “Ondine.”

Lithe, lovely Ondine rushes toward me and grabs my hands so hard that my knuckles crack. “Oh, I’m so glad I found you. I couldn’t stand to be alone for this.”

“Me neither.”

She talks when she’s anxious, so I’m prepared when she starts speaking a mile a minute. “We just have to remember that we’re nearly done. This is my last reaping, and you and Bosun will be done next year. And then we’ll all be safe.” Her throat bounces as she swallows back tears. “Right?”

I smile. “Right.”

She catches sight of a few of her friends and drags me over to them.

(FINNICK)

I sit with the other victors on the platform in the shade. Everybody else stands on the ground facing the stage, the sun shining directly into their eyes. They’ve probably all ruined their clothes with sweat by now.

An attendant comes around to us and offers to powder our faces so we don’t look “too damp.” Mags is the only one polite enough to say no; the rest of us just ignore the attendant altogether. I let her give me a light dusting.

Eefa is half-asleep, Mags has her hands folded in her lap, and Broadsea keeps itching his beard and occasionally baring his teeth at people who stare too long. Proteus hasn’t taken his seat yet; he’s chatting with the mayor and the harbormaster about spatchcocking, which I guess is a cooking thing since that’s his passion. Maybe ‘passion’ is too strong a word; Proteus is too apathetic to experience any strong urge or emotion. His hobby, perhaps, is a better description.

We sit in order of victory, which means that as the most recent victor, I’m at the end of the line. I’m stuck next to damn Broadsea, and, since I sit on his left, I’m stuck looking at the mangled side of his face from the corner of my eye.

Mags is the only one I get along with. She’s the only one I like and she’s one of the only people in the world who genuinely likes me. As our district’s first victor, she’s seated at the other end of the line.

The microphone at the front of the stage shrieks as our Capitol escort adjusts it. She’s gotten even more surgery done to disguise her age since last summer, but instead of looking younger she just looks strange. She gives the introductory speech reminding us why the Hunger Games exist and what an honor it is to be chosen.

Piers Brewre volunteers for the boys.

The Career is about average height, maybe a little taller, and well-built. His muscles don’t bulge out of his body the way other Careers’ sometimes do, but they’re just big enough to see that they’re there.

Most of our tributes are Careers; regular kids get called up about a third of the time. We don’t have as many Careers as 1 and 2, but it’s practical to have a few. Careers have a real shot at winning and they save someone else’s life by volunteering to compete. I’ve always wondered why other districts don’t have this practice. It would save them a lot of heartache.

Piers takes his spot on the stage and crosses his arms over his chest as he waits for his partner to be called.

Brae clears her throat. “Now for the girls!”

There’s confusion in the crowd. An eighteen-year-old girl named Coastia was set to volunteer this year. Most people don’t change their minds about volunteering, and those who do aren’t usually allowed to withdraw. Coastia must’ve bribed somebody to get out of it.

Someone angrily shouts “Coastia! What did you do?” and a girl of about eighteen that must be her shrinks to the back of the crowd. The other girls begin to cluster into little pockets, all holding hands and whispering to each other. Other people start to scream out all sorts of horrible things, and most of the girls begin to panic. They thought, at least this year, they were safe. Now the odds are their only protection.

Brae, our escort, prances over to the other bowl and reaches in. She accidentally grabs two, and takes her sweet time choosing which to keep and which to toss back with the others. She opens the slip of paper and clears her throat before reading, “Annie Cresta!”

After a few seconds, a girl emerges from the crowd. Flowing hair. Wide eyes. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Visibly trembling. She stumbles a few times as she climbs the steps to the stage, anxiously wiping her sweaty palms on her blue dress. Her chin quivers from the strain of holding back tears. She’s going to lose the battle.

There’s a commotion near the front of the boys’ group. A boy says something and surges forward, but another boy, who I know to be the grandson of one of our other victors, catches him by the arm and pulls him back.

Brae smiles brightly. “Ladies and gentlemen of District Four, I present to you – your tributes!”

There’s plenty of mandatory clapping, then the tributes are led into the Justice Building. The Head Peacekeeper steps to the front of the stage and starts barking instructions. “Those of you wishing to bid farewell to the tributes, line up here in order of closest relation.”

Broadsea pulls a large bottle of liquor from a hidden pocket in his coat and takes a large drink. He wakes Eefa up to offer her some.

It’s the same every year. Eefa will stay in her rooms and avoid other people at all costs, Broadsea will be drunk or high or both, Proteus will be charming and ass-kissing Capitol citizens whenever possible, and Mags and I will try to keep a pair of children alive for as long as possible.

But I've already watched eight children die in pain and fear. Why should this year be any different?


	2. Chapter 2

(ANNIE)

Bosun is the first one in. He barrels at me and hugs me so hard I nearly have the wind knocked out of me. He squeezes me so hard I think he’s trying to crush us together into one pile of bones.

He starts talking right away, saying everything in one breath the way Ondine does. “You find water. Keep to yourself; you don’t need to go getting mixed up in alliances. Especially with those people from One and Two. Okay? Don’t get tangled up with Piers, either; it’ll just make things worse. You know how to use a knife and you’re okay with a spear. The odds aren’t bad,” Bosun says. “You’re seventeen, too. The tributes over sixteen automatically have better odds.”

It’s true. Finnick Odair is the only tribute younger than sixteen to ever become a victor.

“You can outlast them,” Bosun insists.

He seems to have run out of words and air for the moment; I take my chance to speak.

“Be good,” I say. “Don’t take any shit from Chelsea. You’re old enough to be on your own now. Coraline and Adrie suck anyway; let them fend for themselves. Just get your own place –”

“ _We’ll_ get our own place,” he corrects. “All right? You and me. Just as soon as you get back.”

“If I don’t –”

“Annie –”

“If I don’t, I want you and Ondine to get married and have a dozen babies and name all the girls after me.”

He smiles the slightest bit. “Alright. But you have to name all your sons after me, then.”

A Peacekeeper appears in the doorway. “Time’s up.”

“A dozen babies, okay?” I say. “I love you!”

Coraline and Adrie are next. They just hug me and tell me to be brave. Their mother, my aunt Chelsea, stands near the doorway for the first few minutes and then flees. The two are talking over each other, saying how much they love me and how sorry they are. But I can see, at least in Coraline's eyes, a strange sort of relief. This was her last year of being eligible for the reaping. For her, this nightmare is over. And what’s the loss of one cousin? She has another.

Ondine comes in crying uncontrollably, but she still manages to look beautiful – long golden waves, piercing blue eyes, and a sylph-like silhouette. Every time she tries to speak, she ends up making this horrible choking sound. It’s like reliving saying goodbye to Liffey last year before they took her away.

Liffey. I said goodbye to her in here, too.

I’m so scared that I’ll start crying. I want to cry. But nothing comes out. It’s like my mind has lost the ability to communicate with my body. All I end up telling her is that she and Bosun should look after each other.

When her five minutes are up, Ondine is near hysterics. One of the peacekeepers has to take her by the arm and lead her away.

She’s barely gotten a word out this whole time. I wish she hadn’t come to say goodbye. It only made things worse for both of us.

Dodge rushes in, wrapping me up in a hug. “I know the mentors. They’ll watch out for you.”

Of course. He’s more familiar with this than anybody. His grandmother, Eefa, is a victor.

“You do whatever the mentors tell you to, okay?” he says again. “Especially Finnick. No matter what they say, you do it. All right?”

I nod vehemently because the lump in my throat blocks the words from coming out.

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after Bosun while you’re gone.”

My old schoolteacher comes in with her husband next, followed by two of Dodge’s cousins.

Nobody else comes to see me, but Piers still has visitors, so I sit alone in this awful room for nearly twenty minutes while he finishes up.

He and I don’t speak until we’re on the train.

Brae, our Capitol escort , leads us to a grand room with a band of windows all around. Nobody’s sure how old she is, since she’s had so many surgeries to counteract the aging process. “Sit, sit!”

Cakes and fruit are set out on tiered stands. A fuzzy yellow-orange fruit catches my attention but it doesn’t seem appropriate to eat right now.

“How old are you?” Piers asks when we sit down.

“Seventeen. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he says. Then he gets all silent and thoughtful.

There’s an awkward silence for a moment before I force myself to speak. “Have you ever met them before? The victors?”

District 4 has five victors: Mags, Eefa, Proteus, Broadsea, and Finnick. They won the 11th, 31st, 51st, 56th, and 65th Hunger Games, respectively. Mags is the oldest living victor, except for a man from District 8 whose memory is starting to fade. She and Finnick adore each other. He actually lived with her for a couple years after his victory.

Piers pulls his mouth to one side. “I’ve seen Mags and Proteus around town, and I’ve met Finnick a handful of times at the training center. But never Broadsea or Eefa. I’d remember seeing Broadsea.”

Broadsea is impossible to miss, and not just because of his massive size. Most of the left half of his face is mangled so badly it hardly looks human.

“I’ve met Eefa a couple times,” I say. “My brother is best friends with her grandson. But I don’t know if she knows who I am.”

When I do see her on television, Eefa always looks very sour. She looks sour on the rare occasion I see her in person, too.

I doubt they’d show Broadsea even if weren’t so aggressive and drunk all the time. He’s not pretty or talented, so there’s nothing to take the focus off that huge ugly scar on his big angry face. Mags is pleasant but sad; Proteus is whatever the situation calls for. Finnick is stunning. The cameras are always on him.

We pass the _Harrington_ , a massive Peacekeeper ship named for the man who first patrolled the waters around District 4 after the rebellion. It’s at least three times as big as the Justice Building and functions as both the prison and the peacekeeper base.

It marks the farthest edge of the district. My district. That I’ll never see again.

We pass by the lake and its guard towers before plunging into a dark tunnel dug out of the cliffs.

Piers and I both jump to our feet when a sweet old woman with a warm smile comes to greet us, followed closely by a plain-faced man wearing a manufactured smile.

“My name is Mags,” she says to us. “Eefa is having a lie-down in her room but the others should be out in a moment.” She smiles widely at us. “You must be Annie and Piers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Piers says.

“Please, just Mags.” Her smile is reassuring. She doesn’t show any sign of fear for us. I’m sure it comes from years of practice. She turns to me. “I’m so sorry about Coastia dropping out. I don’t know what I would do if I were in your position. You’re handling it with such grace.”

Proteus is next. He is lean with sharp, sunken-in features. Not attractive, really, but not unattractive, either. Everybody likes him well enough, but no one loves him. They say he’s good to talk to, and the most talented chef in the whole country. He even cooked a meal for the president once.

“This is Proteus; Proteus, this is Annie and Piers,” Mags says. She introduces us as though she’s known us for years.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, but doesn’t move to shake our hands. An Avox comes over and hands him a glass of cloudy grey liquid. He sips it slowly. The Avox offers some to Mags, too, but she refuses. I concentrate on my feet.

“I don’t drink much these days,” Mags explains as we take our seats around the dining table in the middle of the train car. “When I was your age I could out-drink nearly anybody in town. These days I’m too afraid of the hangovers.”

The door slides open, and in walks the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

Finnick Odair is breathtaking. Smooth, tanned skin. Sculpted face – and body, for that matter. I can’t find the words to say how he looks. What he’s like. But I can feel each aching beat of my heart in my chest.

Everybody in the whole country knows him. He was the youngest victor ever and by far the most charming and beautiful. Sponsors showered gifts on him in the arena, including a trident. Everybody knew he was going to win. And now everyone falls all over each other to get his attention.

I force myself to look at something else – anything else – to keep from blushing. It’s no use. I study the water glass on the table as my cheeks and ears burn.

“Hello,” he says simply. “I’m Finnick.”

“I’m Piers. And this is Annie,” Piers adds, like he knows I won’t be able to speak in front of him. This is the effect Finnick has on all women.

Finnick in person is different from the Finnick I’ve seen on television. You can get an idea of what size he is by measuring him against the other victors on the screen, but he seems like a giant in person. He’s well over six feet, and he’s got big shoulders and a broad chest. When he smiles, he looks like a mischievous child.

I practically have him memorized. All the plains and contours of his face. The way his ears stick out. Liffey used to tease me for being so in love with him, but she couldn’t blame me. No one can. Half the country is in love with him. Maybe more.

He can’t even escape the attention at home in District 4, but he doesn’t seem to want to.

“This will be all of us for dinner, I think,” says Mags. “I doubt the others will make an appearance.”

A pair of Avoxes with shaved heads serve us lamb chops with mint jelly and roasted potatoes for dinner. I’ve never had lamb before. I want to go slow and savor every bite but I scarf the whole thing down in a matter of minutes.

Piers makes a face when he takes a bite of the meal and offers me his lamb in exchange for my potatoes.

The victors keep up a shallow conversation about their favorite foods in the Capitol, about the first time they tried lamb or ate peaches or watermelons.

(FINNICK)

Piers doesn’t really make an impression on me, even though he’s the one I should focus my energy on. It’s the girl that catches my attention.

She has long, lovely hair that falls all around her like ripples in water. She has pink cheeks and green eyes. She’s too absorbed with her food to notice I’m staring at her. She’s beautiful, but not in the raw, sexual way that earns sponsors.

I have to remind myself that admiring a pretty tribute is a waste of time. What does it matter if she's beautiful? She'll be dead soon. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Broadsea makes a brief appearance at the end of dinner when he comes in looking for liquor. He keeps his back to us as he picks through the bar cart. An Avox tries to help him but is waved away. She ends up cleaning the broken glass on the floor when Broadsea drunkenly knocks two glasses and a decanter of wine to the floor.

He stumbles back out, three bottles of varying size and color in his arms, without a word or even a backwards glance at the tributes.

Annie looks ready to pass out on the table by the time she’s finished her dessert of exotic fruits. She’s eaten just about everything she can reach, certainly out of wonder rather than starvation. She keeps two peaches clutched in her hands.

Piers has only picked at his string beans and potatoes. Nerves, probably. Mags asks him shallow questions meant to distract him from his problems but he only gives one-word answers. He doesn’t need to be distracted. What he needs is to cry.

*

I have trouble falling asleep. I always do the first night.

Mags remembers the name of every tribute she’s ever mentored. One hundred and thirty-eight children in the last sixty-nine years. Only four of us made it back home.

I stare up at the ceiling of my room and count my own tributes the way other people count sheep. I can’t keep their years straight in my head but I know all their names.

Reeve and Aeterna, Windlass and Strake, Quay and Zora, Liffey and Asper.

Annie and Piers.


	3. Chapter 3

(ANNIE)

Most of the fourth floor of the Training Center belongs to us. Bits of it have been carved out for the Avoxes to use as storage or living space or something – I don’t know what. Nobody knows what with Avoxes.

Each district gets two Avoxes while staying at the training center, a male and a female. I don't know how many Avoxes the average Capitol citizen has in his or her home, but two must be sufficient if not decadent, for tributes are treated like kings before going to their deaths.

Mags greets them warmly when they come out to welcome us. Somehow she knows their names. Maybe they wrote it down for her?

She introduces us like it’s no big deal. Greer is the girl with the close-cropped black hair; Somes is broad-shouldered and keeps his eyes on the ground.

Piers and I avert our eyes, Piers out of politeness, I think, but I do it out of fear. Avoxes have always scared me. The idea of them. Their tongues torn out. Forced into slavery. Names lost. Whole lives scooped out and tossed away. Dodge read one of his grandmother’s old books to us once. It talked about zombies, which are people whose minds and souls are gone and all that’s left of them is their bodies, slowly decomposing. And they can’t think for themselves and they can’t even rest when they’re dead. That’s what an Avox is.

The female – I suppose I should call her Greer – shows me to my bedroom and I manage to say thank-you without my voice cracking.

My bedroom has floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall that look out over the Capitol. There are lots of tall buildings and statues made from metal and concrete. There are trees and flowers planted along sidewalks, but no grass anywhere. It makes the plants seem artificial. Maybe they are.

There’s a shiny green dress laid out for me on the bed. The waist is tight. I don’t ever wear things like this – my dresses are all boxy and shapeless because they’re comfortable and easy. I wear them every day. Except reaping day.

The Avoxes serve us what Proteus calls brunch – eggs and toast and sweet juice made from oranges – and then we’re whisked away to the prep center to prepare for the opening ceremonies tonight.

The prep team is like a school of those little fish that move in perfect synchronization. I can’t remember what they’re called.

“You have the biggest forehead I’ve ever seen,” one of them says. She cups my chin and pulls my face up. “Smile, show me your teeth.” I do so and she winces. “Large. Very large.”

“You have the most fantastic eyes!” another croons. “Nobody will even notice the teeth! Do you know how much money people would pay for that pigmentation? And your hair, ugh!” She twists some around her finger. “And so soft! You should really cut it, you know, to make into a wig. And even if you cut half of it off, it’ll still be long.”

I’ve always known that my hair is my best feature. The color is common and dull if you ask me, but it’s long and wavy and doesn’t disobey or trouble me the way other girls’ hair do. I don't bother it and it doesn't bother me. _Live and let live_ , Liffey used to say. 

My stylist, Beest, comes in when the prep team finally declares that they’ve done all they can to fix me up. Two out of the three preppers are upset that they couldn’t do more to fix me but the third, the one who wants to make my hair into a wig, is “pleased as punch!” with her work.

Beest was recently promoted to District 4 after wasting more than a decade working with the tributes from District 6, which everybody knows is the most boring district apart from 12. This is a real step up. But the boy who won last year was from District 6, and if Beest had only stayed on a little longer, he would've had a bright, shiny victor to dress up.

“My goodness, look at that forehead.” He tugs some hair in front of my face and folds it up. “We’re giving you fringe,” he declares.

I don’t want fringe but my opinion doesn’t matter much.

He circles me slowly. “Relax your shoulders. Just leave your hands at your sides – stop trying to cover yourself.”

That’s not an easy request. Nobody’s seen me naked – well, my cousins and my friends when I’m changing, but no one really important. And certainly not a man.

He’s happy that I don’t have much body hair – everyone in District 4 shaves because it helps us move faster in the water. He says that the tributes from 6 usually have enough hair on their bodies to make a carpet. He and the prep team laugh at that image.

“Honestly!” Pleased as Punch says.

The one who hates my teeth shakes her head. “I wanted to vomit whenever I saw how they clogged the drain.”

They twitter a little longer about how disgusting the people from some districts are, but Beest claps his hands twice and announces we have no time to lose gossiping.

“My job is to make people remember you,” Beest says. He sounds excited. “Let’s be honest, Annie, you’re very forgettable.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty,” he says. “But you’re nothing remarkable.” I know this already. But that doesn’t mean I like hearing it. He goes on to talk about ways he can apply lipstick so my mouth looks smaller and how best to hide my dreadful forehead. And maybe don’t show my teeth when I smile, or at least try not to reveal “too much tooth.”

Beest hums quietly as he selects what shades of blue, green, and purple to use on my eyelids. “Do you ever use nets to fish?” he asks.

“I’m not a fisher,” I say. “But my brother and I work weaving nets for our aunt. Why do you ask?”

Just then my prep team comes in again. One is holding a whole bunch of white and blue rope fishing nets. The other two are carrying a dress like it’s a baby. I notice some netting coming off of that too.

It takes nearly an hour for them to weave the net into my hair. It takes a little while longer for Beest to finish my makeup. It only takes a few minutes to properly get into my dress. But then it’s another fifteen for them to attach the net sleeves properly, and then another fifteen to attach the net train. They paint my fingers and toes a deep shimmery blue that I can’t stop looking at.

The bangs are a bit of a shock. More than anything, they tickle my eyebrows.

Beest sighs. “Your hair really is your best feature.”

“Thanks.”

*

Finnick looks about a thousand times better than anybody else. Even the other tributes turn their heads to watch him walk from the elevators to our chariot. He’s wearing one of those big knit sweaters we wear at home and structured black pants that seem to disappear into his boots. 

Finnick Odair's stylist is a coveted position. The last person who held that high office got drunk on power (and wine) and whipped himself out of his trousers at the president's birthday party. That's the story, at least. In any case, the position is filled.

I nearly choke on my own spit when he smiles at me.

Mags smiles and sets her hand on my arm. “Sometimes I tell him he ought to put a sack over his head to keep from distracting other people,” she says, voice low. “It’s really very selfish.”

She’s pleased when I giggle quietly.

Finnick’s smile widens as he approaches us, his hands folded behind his back. “What are we whispering about?” he asks with a conspiratorial grin.

“Girl things,” Mags says. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Finnick chuckles. He produces a handful of blue candy seemingly out of thin air and offers some to us.

“Thank you.” My hand shakes as I pluck a piece from his palm. I can feel his eyes on me, slowly working their way from head to toe, and I have the urge to curl in on myself. I must look awful if Finnick Odair is taking note of it.

Someone nearby laughs loudly; Mags and Finnick turn their heads toward the sound. Proteus is speaking to and laughing with a victor from District 5. Proteus is nice enough and he smiles a good amount, but he doesn’t seem like the sort of person that laughs. Or that really has friends, except for Eefa, I think. And his wife, though he doesn’t seem the least bit interested in her. His laughter is something of a shock.

“Never get used to that,” Finnick says under his breath. He smiles at me. “Ready?” He helps me into the chariot and I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. His hands are big and warm and smooth and sturdy; my own hand is shaking so hard it might as well be spasming, and my palms are coated in cold sweat. But he doesn't seem to mind.“All you have to do is smile, maybe wave. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

I nod because I can’t speak, not after he’s touched me.

“Annie,” Finnick says. Like an afterthought. “You look beautiful.”

By some miracle I manage not to swoon. “Thank you.”

Piers soon climbs up beside me. He’s wearing a vest and hood made of netting, and a shirt and pants made of the same raw cloth as my dress. He greets me coolly and starts a conversation with Finnick.

In front of us, the District 3 tributes are wearing silver outfits covered in lights and wires that the boy can’t stop fussing with. Behind us, the tributes from 5 are in their usual power plant worker uniforms. Their hats are incredibly sparkly.

There are other mentors around, but only a few of them are speaking to their tributes. Broadsea is drinking with a handful of other victors, including the one from District 5 that was laughing with Proteus only a moment ago. I recognize Gaius from District 2 who won the 68th Games. I think he’s speaking to Johanna Mason from District 7 – she won the year before he did – but I can’t tell from behind.

A voice comes through hidden speakers. “Tributes mount up, tributes mount up.”

Mags takes my hand. “Good luck.”

Just before the chariots roll out, Piers holds up one of his netted arms to sneer at it. “We look like fish in a barrel.”

(FINNICK)

“Your girl’s kinda pretty. Maybe that’ll get her some sponsors.” Johanna has materialized beside me. She looks straight ahead at the Circle, at the parade of frightened children.

I snort. “I doubt sponsors will be a problem for you. Your boy’s huge.”

“Built like an oak,” she says simply, and finally turns toward me. “Long time no see.”

“That’s the problem with having friends from other districts. Only see them once a year.”

She smiles and embraces me. “How have you been?”

“District Four,” I say. “Same as always.” It’s quiet for a moment. “Your girl isn’t memorable. Neither is mine. Her best chance is hiding and hoping the others forget about her. Like that kid last year from District Six.” I sigh. “We were meant to have a volunteer this year. I’ve met her a few times before. She would have a real chance if she didn’t slip out of the contract.”

“Sounds like a real bitch.”

Bitch is at least something to work with. Annie’s so timid and shy I worry she’ll faint if she receives direct attention from anyone. Piers just doesn’t have a personality.

“Bitch is better than sweet,” I say, sighing.

“In the Hunger Games, sure. Not in real life,” Johanna says.

Real life. I haven’t had one of those in years.


	4. Chapter 4

(ANNIE)

Brae wakes us up bright and early so she and Finnick can talk to us before training starts.

Breakfast is protein-packed – eggs and sausage and bacon which Proteus supposedly cooked up himself – and he’s the best chef in Panem, so it’s bound to be delicious. We’ve never seen this much meat at once in our lives. Piers and I are sitting down at the table, about to stuff our faces when Brae smacks each of us on the hand as we reach for the toast. “Wait for Finnick and Mags!” she says. “Besides, you shouldn’t eat too much anyway. You’ll make yourself sick at training. Or worse, you’ll gain weight.”

Mags is the next to show up. She’s not fully dressed like the rest of us. Instead, she’s in a dressing gown with her hair in the same braid she slept in. I guess she’s been doing this for so long she has her own routine. She sits down, smiles at us, and grabs some toast and jam. Brae doesn’t chastise her for it.

Greer comes over with a steaming mug of tea and sets it down before her. “Oh, my favorite.” She smiles up at the Avox. “Thank you, Greer,” she says, and the Avox actually smiles.

Brae leans over the table and whisper-shouts, “You really mustn’t talk to it.”

A few moments later, the elevator dings and in walks Finnick. The bags under his eyes and disheveled clothing confirm he’s been out all night with some rich woman or man that had something good enough to catch his attention.

It confuses me. Everybody knows that Finnick is a flirt and a philanderer, but from what I’ve seen of him, he doesn’t seem like a playboy. But what do I know? I’ve known him maybe three days.

“Good morning.” He flashes us that winning smile. I study the tableware again. I notice he doesn’t kiss Mags on the cheek as he normally might. I wonder why.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Brae says.

He takes a seat at the head of the table, directly across from Mags. “I thought you might be missing me.” He grins sarcastically. He catches me watching him and winks. I can feel my ears burning.

Piers cautiously reaches for the bacon again, waiting to see if he will be punished. But Brae says nothing, so we dig in.

“So from what you’ve told me,” Finnick says, taking a bite of his eggs, “you’re both pretty fast. Do you know how to use a weapon, Annie? Did you train at all?” He doesn’t have to ask Piers if he can fight; he’s a Career after all.

I have to clear my throat a few times before my voice works. “A little,” I say. “I can use a spear close-range. I can use a knife pretty well.”

“Can you throw one?”

“Not really. I’ve only ever tried a couple of times,” I say. “But I know where to stab people.”

“That’s the most important thing. You can always practice throwing; there’s a station for that,” Finnick says. He doesn’t have to ask Piers what he’s good at.

The conversation continues in that vein all through breakfast. Finnick tells me not to be intimidated by the Career kids in training. Mags tells us to be as kind as possible to the others; Piers asks why, and I whisper in his ear that it’ll make them think twice about killing us – or at least hesitate for a moment – if they remember that we’re real people, maybe even good people.

“The biggest threats will be Districts One and Two,” Finnick says. “They’re all volunteers this year. Careers. If other tributes are particularly skilled, they join the pack. I’d also keep an eye on the boy from Seven and Nine’s girl.”

Finnick doesn’t say anything about Piers teaming up with the Careers, though we all know he will; they’ll probably discuss it when I’m not around.

Eefa comes out of her room and goes straight into the kitchen to speak to Proteus. No _good morning_ or _good luck_. The difference between her and Mags amazes me.

*

I run through my mental list of the other tributes as I walk through the Training Center. District 1 has Shine and Cash – they’re both exceptionally good looking, which seems to be the norm. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an unattractive person from District 1 at the reaping or in the Games; maybe they just hide the ugly ones in the back of the crowd.

2 has Euphemia and Ryker, both volunteers, like District 1, and both are menacing.

The pair from 9 are at the medical station. Millet, the girl, is small but strong and breathtakingly beautiful. Honey-brown skin and cropped hair. The boy is no older than thirteen. I doubt he’s a threat.

Gad from 7 is testing the length and weight of different swords, finding one that feels comfortable. He’s tall and sturdy and has a very serious look about him. Piers and the boys from 1 and 2 speak to him every now and then. Maybe they want him in their alliance.

The Careers all go to different stations, but they sort of orbit around each other – never stray too far away, always chat with one another as they change stations. Cash seems to be good with spears, Euphemia with a knife, Ryker with a bow and arrow, and Shine – well I’m not totally sure what you’d call her particular skill. She has a rope with these sorts of weights attached to either end. The trainers call it a bola, I think. She spins one end above her head, allowing it to pick up speed. When she releases it, it goes flying into the dummy and wraps itself tightly around the neck.

I try my hand at the knives. I’m awful at throwing them, but it’s pretty hard to mess up stabbing. The instructor goes over weak spots with me and how long it’ll take someone to die depending on where you stab them.

My hands start shaking so badly that I can’t keep a hold of my knife.

Piers works with medicine and edible plants and basic wilderness skills; he doesn’t feel the need to practice fighting. He chats with the other Careers here and there.

The boy from District 7 spends the day throwing heavy objects and wielding giant swords. The Careers take note.

Suddenly all I can think about is one of those heavy objects crashing into my skull. How much would it hurt? How fast would I die?

It’s too much. My heart starts racing and my throat gets tight. I need to run. I can’t do this I can’t be here I can’t do any of this.

I lock myself in the bathroom and lower my head between my legs like the doctor taught me to when I was young, when I first found out what a panic attack was. He said I had all this excess energy with nowhere to go, so uses shaking hands and closing throats to urge me to run and wear myself out.

He said I’d never have need of all that excess adrenaline, all those urges to for my life from some unknown or nonexistent enemy.

I can’t do it. I can’t do any of this. The only way out is to die and I’m not ready for that, either. But I don’t have a choice.

There’s an awful little nursery rhyme my father would sing to me when I was upset. It didn’t make me happy but it did distract me.

It was based on a story about a girl whose jealous stepmother murdered her and fed her to her father. Her half-sister, the stepmother’s daughter, buried her remains under a tree in which there was a bird’s nest. The girl’s spirit floated out of the ground and into the bird that lived there, and she watched her family and sang all day.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

She perched outside her family’s home and sang and sang and sang until they all went mad and then the girl could rest.

(FINNICK)

I spend the next eighty minutes scrubbing my skin raw in the shower like I do every morning after seeing a patron. Their touches always linger on my skin in the worst sort of way. Sometimes it feels like there are ants crawling all over me.

Scrubbing myself seems like a pointless exercise sometimes since I’ll just have to do it again tomorrow. I wouldn’t have any skin left at the end of my annual visits if the Capitol didn’t fill their shower water with chemicals to soothe and soften the skin and leave you fresh as a daisy – a rose, really, since that seems to be the preferred scent.

I fall asleep on top of the covers for a few hours. A parade of my district’s past and present female tributes whirls around in my head. It’s a dream I have all the time. Usually they’ll all just be sitting and talking or going for a swim until the skin melts off of someone’s face.

I usually wake up when I hear Tethys screaming like she did when she died five years ago as mutts dragged her into the dark waters of a swamp.

But she doesn’t scream this time. No one does.

Tethys, Aeterna, Windlass, Zora, and Liffey are all either floating face down in the water of an otherwise lovely lagoon or lying motionless on rocks, already dead.

But someone is missing. I wade into the lagoon up to my waist, calling out for the missing girl, though I doubt she can respond or even hear me. I keep wading into the water until it goes over my head. Roots and vines crisscross the mud at the bottom of the lake. They coil around my ankles as I walk past but they let me go.

That’s when I see her. Annie Cresta. She reaches out for me, mouth open in a silent scream that rises to the surface as bubbles. She’s all tangled up in the weeds. She’s drowning. I try as hard as I can to free her, but more weeds keep sprouting and tangling around her faster than I can pull them away.

Annie is convulsing now. She’s been too long without air and her body isn’t in control of itself anymore. She isn’t truly conscious, I know that, she can’t feel any fear or pain, but her eyes are open and staring at me and her face is still frozen in a scream. I keep trying to free her even though I know how useless it is because I can’t let this girl die – not this one, not this time – but by the time I finally remove the last of the weeds from around her body, she’s dead.

I wake up when someone knocks on my door. I’ve kicked all my pillows and blankets to the floor in my sleep, and I’m covered in a thick layer of sweat. I can feel my heart vibrating in my chest and taste adrenaline in the back of my mouth.

It takes a moment before I can get my stiff muscles to move. “Fuck,” I breathe. I sit up and start trying to wipe the sweat from my eyes but there’s too much of it. I’ll have to wash it off.

The knocking continues.

“What is it?” I call. No answer, just more knocking. “Fucking what?!” I shout. I don’t usually lose patience so easily if at all but the last thing I need right now is incessant noise.

The door opens just enough for Somes to poke his head through. He gestures an apology for disturbing me and then mimes eating.

“I’ll be right there. Tell them to start without me.”

I splash some water on my face and the back of my neck in the bathroom before pulling on the first clothes I see and head out to the dining room where the others are already seated. Broadsea is nowhere to be seen, but Eefa has deigned to join us for dinner.

Proteus is asking Piers what he thought of the other tributes while the Avoxes ladle soup into everyone’s bowls. Mags is telling Annie some story meant to cheer her up. I involuntarily exhale a sigh of relief when I see her; I play it off as a yawn.

“What did I miss?” I take a seat at the end of the table with Annie on my left and Mags on my right.

“I’m telling Annie how I almost lost a toe when I dropped that carving knife a few months ago,” Mags says. “Do you remember?”

I have to respond but I’m having trouble finding my tongue in my mouth, so I only nod.

Annie’s changed out of her training gear into a flowing grey dress but her cheeks are still flushed from exercise.

She’s too pretty. That’s the problem. And whatever else I am, I’m still a nineteen-year-old boy, and pretty girls can be a real distraction. That’s why she’s stuck in my subconscious.

Even when I go to see my patron for the night, Annie Cresta is in the back of my mind. Usually when I’m with someone, all my thoughts just float away and I don’t think of anything at all. I try to push her out of my head but she refuses to leave. I wouldn’t mind so much if her image was a happy one, like the way she looked tonight at dinner, but it’s the version of Annie I saw in my dream. The drowned one.

I’m so distracted that I hardly hear my patron talking to me as we lie side by side. “My cousin,” the young woman starts, “she told me that you like to hear things. Stories. Secrets. Is that true?”

I force a smile onto my face. “Who doesn’t wants to hear a bedtime story?”

She grins and rolls onto her side to look at me. “What would you like to hear about?”

She tells me about an incestuous pair of twins. One designs plants and ecosystems for the arenas in the Hunger Games; the other is President Snow’s gardener. She gives me all the salacious details, her voice pitched with excitement. But I’m barely listening.

 _Annie Cresta is too pretty_ , I think again. _And in a few days, she’ll be dead, and it won’t matter if she’s pretty or not_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interviews

(ANNIE)

They braid my hair up into a tight bun that hurts my scalp and paint shiny stuff onto my lips and eyelids; my fingernails are painted a soft, shiny, sheer pink.

It’s not even worth trying to describe my seafoam dress.

They stick me in front of a mirror and I don’t know where to look. I’m _beautiful_.

I’ve never cared much what I look like; I know I’ll never turn any heads. But maybe I will tonight. Maybe someone will pay attention to me. Part of me hates that idea, but I know that I have to catch people’s attention if I want them to sponsor me.

This must be how Ondine feels all the time.

I should hope this is how Bosun remembers me after I die. But then I realize Bosun doesn’t really matter anymore. And he doesn’t.

I don’t miss him. That’s odd. He’s my twin brother and my only family and I don’t miss him even a little. All those times I bargained with God to get me away from him and Chelsea and my cousins just for a little while – well now I got what I wanted. I’m away but it’s for a long while and now I can only think about the awful things he says sometimes and how low he can make me feel, not all the times we’ve laughed and talked and played. Isn’t that what I should remember?

“Wonderful,” one of the preppers says, sighing.

I forgot they were there for a moment. I forgot where I was.

The prepper has one hand on her chest like she’s just exercised and is feeling her breathing and pulse. I don’t know her name, but her hair is an acidic shade of yellowy-green that makes her easy to identify.

The mean prepper puckers her purple lips. She circles around me like she’s sizing me up. “Not bad,” she concedes.

Pleased as Punch sighs wistfully. “That hair.” A moment later, she says, “What a shame,” under her breath like I’m not supposed to hear.

I almost tell her that she can have it once I’m finished with it; I’ll have no use for it when I’m dead. But then I realize was a strange thing that would be to say. What a strange thing it even is to think. I’m thinking all sorts of strange things lately. I don’t know why.

I keep my mouth shut.

Beest claps his hands to bring us to attention as he did before the opening ceremonies. “Time is of the essence. Last chance to make a first impression.”

(FINNICK)

The tributes stand in little huddles with their mentors as we wait backstage for the show to begin. Some are still trickling in, dressed to the nines. Most of the girls are in high-heeled shoes that they don’t know how to walk in, so they shuffle over the floor with their arms held out for balance. That’s probably what’s taking Annie so long.

Proteus, Mags, Piers, and I stand in a cluster beneath a massive poster of Caesar Flickerman smiling like an idiot. Eefa and Broadsea are around here somewhere – at least they’re supposed to be. If they are here, Eefa’s probably slipped into a dark corner and Broadsea has gone of in search of his drinking buddies

I’d usually tell my tributes to be themselves , but Piers doesn’t really have any personality to speak of, so I’m not sure that’s a good idea. But he’s nervous about being on camera and it’s my job to calm him down.

“Hey,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

I look up when I hear Mags gasp. I look at her, then at the thing on which her eyes are trained. Annie.

“You look beautiful!” Mags says.

“Thank you.” Annie smiles and averts her eyes.

Her dress is bluish-green; the bottom is fluffy and white like sea foam. The shoulders and arms of her dress are made from a sheer, gauzy material embroidered with sea creatures. She looks like she’s rising out of the water.

But her face is what really grabs my attention. I couldn’t care less about the makeup they’ve put on her – what interests me is the shy little smile on her face. Her ears and cheeks are red with embarrassment from the attention, but she’s also pleased with how she looks.

I don’t think she usually cares about her appearance. She seems too easily distracted and excitable to concentrate on one thing for too long, including how she looks.

But I’m probably wrong. Maybe she’s just hyperaware of the world around her because she knows that she won’t be in it much longer. I don’t know her.

I have to actually force myself to stop looking at her and get back on track. I clear my throat. “You’re District Four, which is good. You’re not too early, and you’re not too far in the middle. And people won’t need to refill their drinks or go to the bathroom yet.”

“I’m not very good at talking,” Annie says. “Especially in front of a lot of people.”

“Caesar will help you,” Mags says reassuringly. “This is what he’s trained for. It’s his job to make you look good.”

“ _Tributes to the stage_ ,” a voice announces. Brae appears and begins shoving them toward the door.

“Good luck,” I say. “Don’t forget to smile.”

“Relax your shoulders,” Proteus calls after Annie. “Show off the gown.”

(ANNIE)

Between the roar of the crowd and the introductory music, I can’t hear myself think.

We take our seats as Caesar welcomes the audience to the Seventieth annual Hunger Games. He gives a few words about how excited he is and how great all the tributes seem; most of them look they’re stuck in a nightmare.

The tributes from 1 and 2 perform very well. Shine and Cash. What horrid names. Ryker and Euphemia have sharp, angular features. They’ve clearly been coached well, but they don’t have much natural charm to speak of. The pair from 3 are a little strange but, to be honest, most people from their district are. Like Beetee and Wiress. The girl speaks too quietly – it’s not that she’s shy, exactly; she just doesn’t seem to understand that it isn’t a private conversation between two people. She is quite smart, though. The boy gestures with his hands a lot when he speaks, and I can see clearly that he’s shaking.

Then it’s time for Annie Cresta to step up.

I contort my face into the biggest smile I can manage and walk out to greet Caesar. He kisses me on the cheek like we’re old friends and then motions for me to sit down.

“So, Annie, tell me – what is it like working with the legendary Finnick Odair?” he says.

“Legendary.” I’m not sure what else I should say.

Caesar gives a chuckle. “Now, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“And you have a twin brother, correct?”

Of course he would know that. The Capitol knows everything about a tribute right down to the color of underwear they’ve got on.

“Yes. We’ve never been more than a couple of miles apart.”

“That’s a shame. But if you win, you go back to that huge house together.”

“Yeah.” _Annie, you idiot_!

“What would you say are your strengths?”

“Swimming?” I say, but it sounds more like a question. I look at Finnick from the corner of my eye; he nods reassuringly. “I’m resourceful.”

“So you’re not a fighter, I take it.”

I shake my head.

“Well that’s all right,” he assures me. “Plenty of people have gotten far just by waiting it out and strategizing. Just look at last year’s victor. And you know how to find water. That’s always a highly valuable skill to have in the arena.” He goes right onto the next topic. “How do you like the Capitol?”

“It’s much different from what I’m used to. All the big buildings and the powerful people. And everyone is so . . . happy.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Caesar says, looking out at the crowd. They applaud. He laughs.

Piers clears his throat a lot when he talks. I can’t pay attention to his interview, though. I can’t stop thinking how bad I made myself look. But what does it matter?

I’ll probably die in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. I’ll _try_ to die in the bloodbath. I’d rather go early than stick around and suffer. Maybe that makes me a coward.

But it’ll be easier in the long run. Bosun won’t have to worry for long. Mags and Finnick can concentrate of Piers without feeling bad about neglecting me.

I’m wondering whether or not I should step off my plate during the countdown tomorrow and blow myself up when Finnick walks over to stand beside me. Very close beside me.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can say that will help you,” he says softly, eyes solidly fixed on the screen. “But I want you to know that I’ll be with you. We will. Mags and me. One of us will always be watching. You won’t be alone.”

Yes, I will.

“Thank you,” I manage.

The interviews wrap up. There are only a couple of non-Career standouts. Gad from District 7’s stylists have made him look as big and muscular as possible. Millet from 9 is lithe and lovely; her male counterpart, Teff, is pretty impressive, too, but nothing terribly special.

I try to remember as many of their names as I can, which probably isn’t smart because it’ll make things harder if I have to kill them, but I doubt it will come to that. I’ll probably die of exposure before the others even get to me, if the lady at the training center is right. She probably is.

 _Annie Piers Shine Gad Euphemia Farad Ryker Millet Teff Axel Homesteader Diode Roan Arth my mother she butchered me my father he ate me_ –

The crash onstage and the ensuing gasps tear me out of my mind. The girl from District 12 has tripped over her heels and dress and knocked down a chair and rolled her ankle.

There’s a muttered curse somewhere behind me. I look over my shoulder and see the back of Haymitch Abernathy’s head as he stalks off, pouring a bottle of purple liquor straight down his throat.

Everyone is silent during the elevator ride up to our quarters, but Mags takes mine and Piers’s hands the moment the door slides shut behind us.

“We will be with you every moment,” she vows, looking back and forth between us. “I will never leave your side.” She gives him a squeeze and then hugs me. “Be brave,” she whispers in my ear. Proteus starts talking to Piers and Mags presses something into the palm of my hand. “For good luck. I wore it when I was in the arena.”

It’s a simple but pretty little hair clip inlaid with pearls. It looks too old and fragile to actually put in my hair but I can easily put in it a pocket or tuck it into my bra.

“Thank you.” That’s all I’m able to say.

Mags gives my hands one more squeeze and steps away. Finnick stands just beside her. He forces something like a smile onto his face, something meant to be reassuring. But it only fills me with dread. “Good luck, Annie,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He narrows his eyes in thought for a moment before slowly taking a half-step toward me. And then he leans down. And then he kisses me on the cheek.

I want to cry – I probably should cry – but I don’t. I don’t know why but no tears come. I’m not even sad or scared, really. And I’m not excited that Finnick Odair’s lips have just touched my skin. It doesn’t really feel like my skin anymore. It feels almost like my body is just another costume like this green dress. I wonder how easily it’ll slip off and if my mind will die with it. That thought doesn’t scare me either.

Finnick pulls away and looks at me like he’s worried he’s upset me, like he’s waiting for me to fall to his feet in a heap. But I just say goodnight and go into my room and close the door.

(FINNICK)

That night, I dream Annie is a mermaid.

Most mermaids are animalistic, man-eating sirens – that’s what the stories say. But some of them are kind. I can tell just from the look of her that she falls into the latter category.

I watch her swimming in a small but extremely deep pond. Something in it is frightening her, and she searches desperately for an escape, but finds none. Eventually, she pulls herself onto the grass and her tail transforms into two legs.

She manages to stand up but when she tries to run, her legs give out beneath her. She looks back at the pond. Whatever is frightening her seems to be getting closer; she starts breathing heavily. Desperately, she crawls on her stomach in a rush to get away. She’s crawled several yards when she rolls onto her back and looks back at the pond.

Annie lets out a single, bloodcurdling scream as her face melts from her skull.

And then it ends.

I wake up covered in sweat just before dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annie's perspective is going to get weirder from now on because of her mental state, so be warned.


	6. Chapter 6

(ANNIE)

Beest pulls my hair back in a series of elaborate twists. All female tributes start off with their hair pulled away from their faces, which their stylist does as artfully as possible. Still want to look our best. But hair ties snap and pins come out as time goes on, and our hair usually becomes one of our biggest hinderances. Mags told me that a female tribute in her year sawed her hair off with a knife to keep it out of her face.

Beest offhandedly comments that they put spare hair ties in a lot of the packs around the cornucopia and then falls silent again.

The outfit this year is a sturdy long-sleeved shirt in a dull grey shade. Our district number is patched on at the top of our right shoulders. The pants are sturdy, too, nothing special. Boots made of canvas and leather.

I absentmindedly rub my forearm where they injected me with a tracker and some sort of concoction that will keep me from getting my period in the arena. The boys got a shot of something too, but I don’t know what. Maybe to keep their facial hair from growing.

They must have shots and potions for everything in the Capitol. For throwing up, for not throwing up, for staying awake, for falling asleep, for –

 _My mother she butchered me_ . . .

 _“Tributes to platforms_ ,” Claudius Templesmith’s recorded voice commands. “ _Tributes to platforms._ ”

 _My father, he ate me_ . . .

My knees are shaking terribly but I manage not to fall down. A clear cylinder comes down around me and the platform begins to rise. Beest waves.

 _My sister, little Ann-Marie_ . . .

We have to stand still for a full minute before we can run for supplies because the audience needs to refill their drinks and run to the bathroom one last time before the bloodbath starts. Claudius Templesmith will give a bit of commentary on the arena during the wait so the audience knows what to expect.

Our platforms kick into place all at once. Everyone except the Careers start looking around to see what they’re up against. What _we’re_ up against. I am a tribute, just like them.

 _She gathered up the bones of me_ . . .

All I can really see is concrete in every direction, cracked in places where grass, plants, and even a couple of trees have broken through. There are piles of stones all around that I realize are from collapsed buildings. The ones that still stand have vines slithering up the sides like nature is trying to eat them up. A lot of them look like they’re minutes away from falling. A couple of them are hollowed out inside so that just the windowsills, doorways, and balconies are the only things to stand on.

 _And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper. Tweet, tweet, what_ –

A young boy near me – from District 12, I think – collapses in fright and falls off of his platform. The landmines buried around it erupt all at once and blow him apart. The blast is so strong that his blood sprays out in all directions and lands on me. My shirt and my face.

I cover my ears and shut my eyes but it doesn’t do much because I know I’ll have to open them and see all of the boy’s body parts on the ground and I’ve already got his blood on me, I’ve already got a child’s blood on me and it burns my skin with its heat and burns my nostrils with its coppery stink.

_What a pretty bird am I._

Claudius Templesmith counts down the last ten seconds and then there’s a gong. I force my eyes open and stagger off of my plate.

The boy’s guts are on the ground. His arm's flown all the way over to the cornucopia and landed on top. It's scary and gruesome but he died fast, so what does it matter where his body parts are? He died fast. He's lucky.

District 1, District 2, Piers, and Gad all rush for the cornucopia. Gad’s their ally, then. He wouldn’t run with such confidence otherwise. The Careers’ first objective is always to secure the cornucopia and claim its treasures for themselves, so you have to get what you can and run, Annie.

I grab as much as I can as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast at all. A backpack and a stray knife and an empty container.

I’m trying to stagger away toward the buildings when someone grabs me by the sleeve and whirls me around.

Boy. District 3.

He was standing on the blown-up boy’s other side. He’s got even more blood on him than I do.

Small knife in right hand. He swings it. Jump back to avoid him but fall down. Supplies spill from my arms. Are on the ground around me now. There is a knife. Is a weapon. Hidden. Somewhere. In all my supplies. But I don’t know where. I do not look for one. I do not need one. I will not fight. There is no point. I will not win.

This is it. Hope it’s fast. Expecting to see my life flash before my eyes. It doesn’t. Just the hope. And the song.

 _My mother, she_ –

And then the tip of a spear explodes through his chest. The boy lives long enough to wrap his hands around the blade before he goes limp.

_Move, move, move! You have to move!_

But I can’t. My arms and legs won’t listen to me. I’m paralyzed until the boy’s body falls off of the spear and onto the ground and I can see who killed him.

Piers.

He keeps one foot on the boy’s back to hold his body down so he can pull the spear free.

_Run, run!_

But I don’t. There’s no use running now; he would chuck his spear straight into my back and it might not kill me right away and I might just lie there screaming and suffering until someone finds the time to slit my throat.

No, I’ll stay still and let him kill me here, and I trust Piers to return the favor by making my death quick and clean. Yes. I’ll stay here.

It’s best if he does it anyway. Someone from home. Then it’s not so bad.

But instead Piers jerks his head toward the forest of collapsing buildings and whisper-shouts at me to go. He’s not going to kill me, at least not yet. Was he protecting me by killing the boy from 3?

I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

Piers tells me to go again, louder this time. I grab the pack and start running, stopping only to grab loose supplies as I flee.

I don’t understand. But I’m still alive.

I run blindly into the forest of buildings and vines and trees. Run until I taste blood in my mouth. Run some more. Fall down.

(FINNICK)

Both of our tributes are alive when the Game makers start projecting the faces of the fallen into the night sky. Eefa, who is out of her room for the second time today, crosses off identifiers on the board beside the television _– Boy 3, Girl 5, Girl 6_ – until half the tributes have been crossed out.

Piers is safely with the Careers, who are still picking through their mountain of supplies at the Cornucopia.

Annie has found shelter in a cave made from a collapsed building. It’s spacious but looks unstable. Mags tells me not to worry about that right now. “They have food. They have water. They have shelter,” she says. “That’s the most we could hope for.” She tells me some version of this every year to try to lessen my anxiety.

Two years ago, when they first started selling me, I broke down sobbing in a car on the way to a patron’s house because I didn’t want to fuck or be fucked by a stranger and I didn’t want my tributes to die. Mags was the only one who could calm me down. She still is.

I don’t really get upset when I see patrons anymore. I feel somehow removed from the process, as though my body isn’t really part of me.

“Piers is already getting sponsors,” I say, looking down and the escalating numbers on the tablet in my hand. “He did well today.”

“I bet some of those sponsorships are because he saved Annie,” Mags says knowingly. “The people like shows of loyalty like that these days.”

In a corner of the screen, Annie arranges and rearranges her supplies in front of her for no apparent reason other than she seems to enjoy it.

I heave a sigh. “I’ve got to go.”

Mags looks fretfully at me as I stand. “Another appointment?”

“Yeah.” I can tell how badly she wants to hug me when I kiss her on the forehead, but she knows I can’t stand to be touched. “Try to sleep. Proteus can take over the watch while I’m gone.”

(ANNIE)

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

The portraits of the dead tributes that they project into the night sky look awkward at best. I’m sure mine is just as ugly. But I don’t know because I’ll probably never see it.

I find shelter in the rubble of a collapsed building that creates a sort of cave. It’s spacious but certainly unstable. But I don’t want to sleep outside and I don’t want to venture into the trees. They seem sinister.

It’s all sinister.

I lay out my items from the Cornucopia in front of me. I take a long time organizing them so that they’re just right before I take an inventory. I like things to be a certain way, especially when I’m stressed, and I sometimes get upset if it takes too long to organize things or if they just won’t cooperate.

I manage to sort everything out so that it lays in one large rectangle. A knife, a full water bottle, two packs of dried apples, a small canvas sheet, two pairs of socks, and three hair ties. Not much. But enough for now.

I waste another hour or two packing the items up again. I concentrate on making them all fit to the point where I stop noticing all the blood on my shirt and in my hair. Or the pit in my stomach. Or that itch in the back of my head – _Piers saved you, Piers saved you_.

But I lie down to go to sleep and I’m scared to close my eyes because of what I’ll see inside my eyelids.

I have that urge again. To cry. But nothing happens. So I hum to myself instead.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_


	7. Chapter 7

(ANNIE)

It’s almost impossible to sleep. Not that I normally sleep well anyway. Still.

I have one of those dreams that’s only two minutes long but actually lasts for an hour or two in real life. Finnick’s in it. He doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t even look at me. He’s just there. And it’s nice in the dream but it’s sad when I wake up.

I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do now. Keep moving? Stay put? I unpack my things and lay them out again. I get one deep sip of water cause I have to be careful about saving it until I find a source (maybe that’s what I’ll do today) and I eat one slice of dried apple. And then I notice the dirt and the blood under my fingernails and my hands start shaking.

 _My mother, she butchered me_ . . .

Shut my eyes. Don’t want to see the blood, see the boy exploding, feel hot drops of blood splatter against my face. Take deep breaths through my mouth to keep from gagging.

It’s a long time before I feel okay again. I’m just opening my eyes when a cannon goes off. I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

I count the bricks in my little cave to calm down again but I keep losing my place and have to start over.

I don’t think I’ll finish counting before the sun goes down. I’ll have to wait to look for food and water tomorrow.

(FINNICK)

My patron last night bought me and Cashmere as a set; I think it’s easier to deal with when there’s another victor with you. Misery loves company, as they say. But it’s also fucking awkward. Plus, it’s ridiculously expensive to buy a night with one victor, so buying two on the same night practically never happens.

We stay in the lady’s apartment long enough to see our tributes onscreen and make sure they’re still alive before making our way back toward the training center. Shine, Cash, and Piers are sorting out supplies and making a plan of attack. Annie is nibbling at some dried fruit.

We stop off at a coffee place on the way.

“That lady was disgusting,” Cashmere says as we wait for our orders. She pulls two blackberry-flavored cigarettes and some matches out of a pocket I didn’t know she had and lights them.

“Mm,” I hum in acknowledgement. She really was gross but I don’t waste my time thinking about her and what she wanted. I never do. When it’s over, it’s over, and there’s no point in reflecting on the experience.

Cashmere hands me one of the cigarettes. “Thanks,” I say. We smoke silently for a little while, watching all the Capitol citizens walk by. Girls giggle when they see me; men wink at Cashmere. It’s nothing new. “Who’s your favorite to win?”

She taps the excess ash from her cigarette on the ground. “I like my girl’s chances. But that pretty one from District Nine is one to watch. You?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

This is what conversations are like the day after you see a patron together. You’re too embarrassed about everything we did to look each other in the eye but we can’t ignore each other without being crushed by the silence. Plus, we have to look fun and flirty for the people that walk by.

My awful attempt at small talk is interrupted when a female tribute gets stuck under falling bricks from a decrepit building nearby. Her lower leg breaks with a loud snap as a particularly jagged stone lands on her shin. She barely has a chance to scream before a larger rock rolls onto her stomach and starts to crush her. It takes about a minute for her to die.

“That’s thirteen gone,” Cashmere says absently. “Eleven to go.”

The Avoxes are the only ones in the common area when I get back to the training center. They’re cleaning puke up off the rug; I assume it’s Broadsea’s.

“Did I miss anything important?” I ask, nodding at the television. There’s nothing interesting going on right now, so Caesar Flickerman is interviewing a Gamemaker named Seneca Crane about the inspiration behind the arena’s design.

It’s more elaborate than usual this year: it looks like an abandoned city that nature has reclaimed. It rains perpetually, and no place is completely dry. There are a handful of high dams, but in heavy rain they overflow somewhat. There’s nowhere to swim, so Annie and Piers don’t have any advantage there.

Somes points at the chalkboard; _Girl 10_ has been crossed off the list. Greer makes a few gestures to let me know that both Annie and Piers are still alive.

“Thanks.”

I sit down on the shower floor like I always do and lean my head back against the wall.

My arena was a heavy forest dotted with swamps.

There was this endless chorus of crickets and cicadas – it never stopped. Not to mention all the other damn bugs that would fly right into my eye or buzz around in my ear. All the bugs bit, but some of them carried diseases. Tributes bitten by the disease-bugs got sick and a few of them died.

There were these mutts in some of the swamps – gators, I think they’re called – that would come out of the water at night and attack. One of them killed Tethys, my district partner. It took her foot first. I couldn’t get to her in time to stop the bleeding or distract the mutt before it circled back for her. It took a while for the gator to kill her, but I doubt she could feel anything except the cold, dry sensation of losing blood.

Most of the water was unsafe to drink, and a good amount of the tributes died from dehydration or infections they got from drinking the bad water. The Careers and I were sure to boil our water to kill any germs. We didn’t have to worry about whether or not someone would see our fire – no one in their right mind would attack the Career pack.

And then one day at breakfast this enormous parachute came floating down from the sky and landed in front of me. A trident.

I knew in that moment that I would survive. I could use spears and knives as well as anybody, but I grew up with a trident in my hand. I knew I had lots of sponsors – they sent medicine when I was injured, fresh bread when I was hungry, even a sliver of soap to wash myself off – but this told me just how many there really were. But a _trident_?! Weapons of any kind were unheard of, but _this_?

It took two days for my allies to turn on me. They didn’t consider me much of a threat at first, since I was only fourteen and no one under sixteen, no matter how skilled or sponsored, had ever won. I defeated them allies fairly easily; I’d been expecting an attack and I knew what their fighting styles were. It only took another two days to find the remaining tributes and kill them.

I had it easy compared to some of the others. Most of the others, actually. I considered myself lucky for the first few days after I won. Thank God I didn’t have to deal with some of the shit the others had to. It evened out in the end, more or less.

Caesar Flickerman is talking as I exit the bathroom. Something menial. “Is she counting?”

“It looks like it,” Claudius Templesmith replies. “But I’m not sure why.”

I start rifling through the clothes in my closet.

“She’s most likely in shock,” Caesar says. “It happens from time to time.”

I don’t really pay attention – why should I? – until I catch a glimpse of Annie Cresta from the corner of my eye. It’s only for a millisecond; the feed switches to more entertaining footage of the boy from District 6 climbing to the top of a massive barebones building at least eight stories high.

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath.

Tributes go into shock pretty regularly; someone cracks up at least once every other year. I’m not surprised that it happened. But it bothers me that it happened to Annie. She was a bit weird to begin with, so I shouldn’t be shocked, but it’s still unpleasant.

Shit.

Piers probably should have killed her at the bloodbath – or at the very least, let the boy from 3 finish the job. The Games have barely started and I’m already so tired; I don’t know if I have it in me to watch Annie get herself killed in some awful way.

I avoid Mags for most of the day because I just don’t want to face her right now.

I eat dinner with Blight and Gloss at a popular restaurant, which we pretty much shut down for the night because so many of my adoring fans would otherwise flood the place. They cluster outside instead; Peacekeepers have to come in to keep them all in line. I’d really rather eat alone in my room but the president likes for his victors to be seen enjoying all the pleasures that the Capitol has to offer. And I hate to admit it but the food is actually good.

Blight brings the new kid with him. Timothy Something-or-other of District 6, victor of the 69th Hunger Games. I feel obligated to make a lot of sex jokes because it’s 69 and I’m _the_ Finnick Odair.

Timothy doesn’t talk very much, nor does he make much eye contact. Blight and Gloss start filling him in on things he doesn’t ask about – the annoying victors, the protocols for being out in public, the politicians and socialites who get handsy when they drink.

“Brutus sucks, Gaius sucks,” Blight says as he pours us each a fresh glass of wine. “They’re both from Two. Actually most of those guys are awful.”

“Broadsea and Eefa fucking suck,” I add.

“And Leetha. Leetha is the goddamn worst,” Gloss says, shaking his head.

Timothy’s voice is scratchy. “Which one is she?”

“The redheaded lady from District Five,” I answer. “Thinks she’s the smartest person in the world. Don’t ever have a conversation alone with her. You’ll try to pull your ears off.”

Timothy swallows hard. He looks twitchy and hungry and tired. Bet he’s already addicted to something – alcohol maybe, or more likely morphling, since that’s the drug of choice for his fellow victors from 6.

The rest of dinner passes without anybody saying anything interesting. I trudge back to the training center and pray Mags has gone to bed already. I just don’t want to see her.

No such luck. She’s sitting on the couch facing the television when I come in. She smiles. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” I mutter. She pats the seat beside her, silently asking me to sit with her. But I don’t want to I stand by the couch with my arms crossed over my chest and my eyes pointed straight ahead.

Then she asks the question I’ve been dreading all afternoon. “Have you seen Annie?”

“Yeah.

We watch the Games in silence for a long time. There’s nothing going on this late; most of the tributes have gone to sleep. But I keep watching.

“What do you think?” Mags finally asks.

“I don’t think anything.” I try not to be snappy but it still comes out with some aggression. She must know I don’t want to talk about this. “I’m going to bed.” I give her a kiss on the cheek as I leave to show her that I’m not really mad at her. But she knows that already.

“Good night, Finnick.”

“Good night, Mags.”

I don’t have any dreams tonight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The famous beheading!

(FINNICK)

I have a bad feeling when I wake up just before dawn on the third day of the Games. Dread, I think. Most likely over the party tonight, but I don’t think that’s it.

Mags and I make our way to a communal eating area on the ground floor of the training center for breakfast. I start picking at a pastry.

Mags weaves her way around the room, saying hello to everyone she sees. I’m still surprised by how sweet she is. The rest of us are conserving our energy in preparation for tonight’s cocktail party in the Capitol’s largest public park – which is partially why the bulk of victors don’t even come down for breakfast – but Mags doesn’t have to do that; it never matters how tired she is or how rude the other person may be. She’s always ready with a smile and a pleasant greeting.

She sits down with Cecelia, a victor from District 8, and starts asking questions about her two children and the third on the way. Mags knows the children’s names and Cecelia’s husband’s name. She could probably list the names of everybody’s children and only get one or two wrong, if any.

The only person she doesn’t get along with is Woof from District 8, who won within two or three years of her – before or after, I’m not sure, but for some reason he can’t stand her. She gets a little passive aggressive with him sometimes, which I think is the meanest thing she is actually capable of doing.

Mags waves for me to come over and sit with her and Cecelia but pregnant women make me profoundly uncomfortable so I pretend not to understand and wave back. None of my friends or even my semi-friends are here at the moment, so I figure I’ll just grab something to eat and head back upstairs.

There’s not much happening on screen at the moment. The Careers are on the hunt. The cameras follow them closely, hoping to find some action. Other tributes are shown in the corner of the screen periodically. No one’s really doing anything interesting, so Caesar and Claudius are chatting about social events rather than what’s happening in the arena.

The party tonight will be all the rage. Caesar himself will even be in attendance, taking a few hours off from work to socialize. Claudius usually fills in for him; he’s not interesting enough or rich enough to garner an invitation.

I shift my focus to the buffet carts and start heaping eggs, sausage, and bacon onto a plate. We don’t get meat much in District 4 so I take advantage when I have it in the Capitol. Proteus once said I might as well take a bath in grease. I said people would pay good money to watch me do it.

“Hey. Finnick.” I turn my head at the sound of my name. It’s coming from the drunks clustered together at a massive table, but I’m not sure which one of them called me until Chaff points his good arm at the television screen. “They’re coming up on your girl.”

Fuck.

I walk to the drunk table and put down my food and stare at the screen.

Haymitch preemptively grabs a few crystal glasses of orange juice that the Avoxes have put out, dumps the juice on the ground, and fills the glasses with white liquor until they overflow.

Annie standing at the center of her cave, looking up at the bricks in the ceiling. Her lips move as she silently counts. She’s so absorbed that she doesn’t notice when the Careers see her, and when she does notice, it’s too late.

There’s a small scuffle but it’s over almost as soon as it begins. Gad has his arms locked around Annie’s waist, immobilizing her. The other Careers form a semi-circle around her. they stand awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot and readjusting their weapons as they all wait for someone else to step forward and kill her.

Annie must know that it’s no good to fight. She stands still, more or less, but keeps instinctively clawing at Gad’s meaty arms until she draws blood. “Bitch!” hisses Gad. He tightens his grip in response.

“Piers. Piers.” Snot and tears run down Annie’s face as he meets her eyes. “Piers.” His chin quivers. “ _Piers_.”

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Come on!” Gad says impatiently. Apparently he doesn’t want to kill her with his bare hands.

“I’ll do it.” Euphemia pulls out her knife and steps toward Annie.

Piers blocks her path. “No.”

“Come on,” says the District 1 boy. Cash, I think. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“It’s not like we’re asking you to do it,” Euphemia sneers. “If anything, I’m doing you a favor.”

“All right.” Piers suddenly grabs the boy from District 2 by the hair and holds a knife to his throat. “You kill Annie for me, I’ll kill Ryker for you, and then Shine and Cash can decide which one of them Gad can kill. How about that?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” says Cash.

“Fuck you.”

Piers inexplicably falls to the ground with a sharp cry. He manages to slice Ryker’s arm as he falls. Claudius Templesmith, ever the narrator, explains that Shine managed to cut his leg with the tip of her spear.

“No!” Annie shrieks. She tries to run.

“I got her!” Gad shouts. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her back hard; she falls on her back with a loud thud.

The other Careers are busy trying to restrain Piers. Their priorities no longer align with theirs so he’s their enemy now. “Hold him down!” Ryker shouts.

“Piers!” Annie cries. “Piers! Piers!”

Piers is shouting as loud as he can now, a sort of war cry. The sound cuts out for a moment, but his lips are still moving. He’s saying something the Gamemakers don’t want us to hear.

Now Gad is on top of Annie, sitting on her stomach and squeezing her windpipe with his thumbs. Piers cries out as Euphemia raises her sword above his head. She drops it just as he twists his head and it lands in his shoulder.

Mags covers her mouth with her hands.

Piers howls in agony. They’ve failed to cut his head off. Now they’ll have to try again.

Fuck.

Euphemia’s hands are shaking too much for her to be precise. The tributes from District 1 are too shocked by it all to hold Piers steady, which only makes things worse. “Get his hair,” Euphemia croaks. The girl, Shine, comes around to the front of Piers’s body and yanks his hair forward to elongate his neck.

Euphemia raises her sword again; the blade gets stuck in Piers’s back.

Most of us have to look away from the television screen, even Mags. But I force myself to stay still. My tributes are suffering. Dying. I can’t look away. I have to stay with them. I can’t let them die alone.

And even if I weren’t looking I could still hear Piers’s cries.

I put an arm around Mags and pull her against me. “Don’t look,” I whisper. “It’ll be over soon.”

Suddenly, Annie grabs Gad’s hair and pull his face down towards her. She digs her slender thumbs into his eye sockets and he releases his hold on her throat to hold in the viscera that used to be his eyes. Annie is sobbing but she has a chance now. She still pinned down but her arms are free. There a loose brick beside her, about the size of a salmon. She grabs it smashes it into Gad’s temple.

He cries out and moves one of his hands to protect his face. Annie hits him with the brick again and his fingers crack as they break. She shuts her eyes and keeps hitting him and hitting him until the flesh hangs off of his fingers and cheekbone in ribbons. And then she hits him again, over and over. He’s still on top of her so his blood drips down onto her face and onto her chest. She wails in horror but she doesn’t stop hitting.

Gad finally falls away from her, screaming and bleeding and blind but still alive. She scrambles to her feet and starts running. The other Careers are too absorbed with Piers to give chase.

Euphemia screams out a curse at the top of her lungs. “Why won’t you die?!” she demands of her victim, as though he is at fault for her multiple failed attempts to decapitate him.

Piers has stopped making noise, but his throat bounces a little as he tries futilely to suck in air. The boy from District 2 finally takes the sword from his partner and rends Piers’s head from his shoulders. It rolls along the ground and stops beside Gad. The sound of cannon fire confirms his suffering is finally over.

Annie has stopped running. She sees the stroke that kills the boy who died trying to save her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she wails. She doubles over, clutching her stomach. She starts stumbling forward, away from the carnage, moving faster and faster until she’s sprinting to safety.

The girl from District 1 crouches beside Gad and slits his throat with a shaky hand. A blind ally with a smashed skull isn’t worth shit. The cannon comes fast.

Cash is frozen in place. I don’t know how long he’s been like that; there were more important things for the cameras to watch. Suddenly, he lurches forward and vomits so intensely that it comes out his nose and he can’t get a breath in.

The others ignore him. They sit in silence as they gather their strength. The boy from District 2 finally picks up Annie’s abandoned canteen and drinks from it before passing it around to his allies.

Caesar Flickerman has to clear his throat several times before he can offer commentary on the killings.


	9. Chapter 9

(FINNICK)

Annie collapses from exhaustion and shock about twenty minutes after escaping the Careers. At least she passes out in a web of vines and branches that partially hide her from view. She’s only a mile and a half from the cave where Piers died, but the Careers are too drained to continue their hunt for the day. They stumble back to the Cornucopia without speaking.

Broadsea is relatively lucid for once in his life and volunteers to take over watching while I get ready for the cocktail party. He makes a sort of come hither movement with his hand the moment Mags and I are out of the elevator. “Give it here.” I stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before he rolls his eyes. I think he would’ve taken the comcuff from me himself if he could’ve done so without me breaking his wrist. I’m not violent or angry by nature; for whatever reason, Broadsea just brings out the worst in me.

I hand it over and he shoos me off to my room; I’m too dazed to do anything but obey. I usually would’ve started a fight with him if he tried to give me orders. Then again, he would usually be drunk right now; Piers’s death seems to have jarred him into a state of temporary usefulness and sobriety.

We talk only long enough to agree on a game plan. A fair amount of sponsors sent money after Piers died. Some donations are still trickling in, but at a much slower rate. Annie lost all her supplies fleeing the Careers. We’ll use some of the donations to send her water purifiers and a knife, if we can afford it. There won’t be much left over to help her down the road, but it’s essential that she stays hydrated, and she’ll need a knife for just about everything.

I’ve spent most of the day sitting on the floor of the shower with my arms around my knees.

My stylist is smart enough not to talk to me while she readies me for this evening’s festivities. It’s not that I would shout at her or get angry or anything if she tried to speak – I only ever lose my temper with Broadsea and Eefa and a few other victors – but it spares me the trouble of asking her to shut up.

The others are waiting in the living area when I come out.

Mags has decided not to go to the party, which she’s technically not allowed to do, but she’s old enough and upset enough after today that I don’t think the powers-that-be will get too upset. On top of that, she knew Snow when they were both young and she doesn’t appear to be afraid of him. What a luxury that must be.

Proteus is casually sipping a cocktail as he looks out a vast window at the city below. Broadsea is itching his scar and looking at the communicuff. 

Eefa is sort of just there. She might as well be a bit of wallpaper – and that’s not really an insult. She’d like to be invisible. Mags told me that Eefa once went a year without ever leaving her house. She thinks Eefa is afraid of places she doesn’t know or open spaces because they make her feel exposed like she was in the arena. That could be true. I don’t know. She’s among the most apathetic victors – not _resigned_ , apathetic. At least the other victors who’ve given up drink or fuck or get high. Eefa just retreats.

On television, the anthem starts in the arena. We all fall silent to watch. It’s only Piers and Gad tonight, but the other tributes’ reactions are certainly interesting to watch. There are ten left, five of whom were involved in the killings.

The boy from 6 pulls his eyebrows together and starts counting on his fingers like he can’t make sense of it. How did two Careers die in one day?

The girl from District 3 is puzzled by it, too, but she doesn’t waste time wondering about it. She’s plotting something else. Her next move. But what can she do to protect herself? District 3 isn’t known for producing fighters.

The boys from 8 and 10 seem unaffected; 10 is setting up what looks like a snare, and 8 is trying to sleep.

Millet of 9 keeps her eyes open and fixed on the sky long after the anthem has ended and the pictures have disappeared.

“Annie’s still out,” Proteus says without looking at me. He sets down his drink and turns to face us. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The annual cocktail party to celebrate former President Ravinstill’s birthday is held in the botanical gardens. Ravinstill’s been dead for decades now, but he’s the president who won the war against the rebels and the Capitol loves a party, so they still celebrate it. President Snow’s birthday parties are limited to family members and old friends; there are never more than a dozen people in attendance, but four hundred people are welcome to the Ravinstill bash, so long as they can pay the steep entrance fee.

Broadsea passes the comcuff off to Eefa and heads off in search of his drinking buddies. He must feel that he’s served his debt to society. I peel away too, making a beeline for Johanna, who I spot by one of the fountains. I smile and shake hands with partygoers as I work my way through the crowd.

“Do you want to talk?” Johanna asks.

“I want to drink,” I reply.

“Good. Talking is bullshit.” She grabs two glasses of posca from a nearby Avox and hands me one. “And I think you’ll need to be drunk if you’re going to charm all these people.”

Of course. I have to be the beautiful, charismatic flirt, as always. Even now, when I still see Piers’s head falling off his shoulders every time I blink.

Johanna and I made an agreement two years ago during her first Hunger Games as a mentor, back when we first became friends, that we would never to apologize to each other, particularly with reference to a tribute’s death. It was her idea, of course, but I readily agreed. That thinking is what made me like her in the first place: There’s no bullshit with Johanna, no time-wasting niceties, no lying.

I down the posca in one go. “I’m gonna need something stronger.” I look around. “Where’s Chaff? He always has that homemade stuff with him.”

“Your guess is better than mine.” Johanna flags down another Avox with a tray of drinks. She takes another posca for me and orders us some whiskey. “So which of these lovely ladies and gentlemen is your hot date for tonight?”

“No idea.” I don’t even know if I could perform tonight. But of course there are remedies for everything.

Johanna leans closer to me. “Somebody’s flagging you down.” I follow her line of sight to a member of the presidential guard. We lock eyes and he indicates with his head for me to come over. “You’ve been summoned,” Johanna says, voice pitched low to sound more commanding.

“Fuck.” That seems to be the word of the day.

I weave my way through the crowd until I arrive at the dais where the president and his favorites are seated. “Ah, Mr. Odair.” Snow waves away his little entourage. “Please.” He gestures to one of the now-empty seats. “It’s been a difficult day for you,” he says once I sit down.

“It’s never easy to watch my tributes die,” I say. I’m across the table from him but I can still smell the rose pinned to his jacket.

I think it’s funny that I’m taller than he is. Bigger, younger. Sometimes I think I would win in a physical fight against him, but he’s crafty and sharp. He’d probably break the rules by stabbing me or something. But if I didn’t wait to fight him, if I walked around the table to his seat, I could just slit his throat. Break his neck. But he’s still deadlier than I am, so I stay put.

“I imagine not. Though today, I believe, was particularly gruesome.” Snow leans back in his chair. “I have decided to cancel your appointment tonight.”

It takes me a minute to process that. If he’s canceling this, he’ll want some other favor. “Thank you.”

“I believe loyalty should be rewarded,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then, of course, the veiled threat: “Just as dissent should be punished.”

“Grandpa!” A pair of little girls come busting in, slamming right through the guards. They swarm around Snow and start talking at once.

“Hello, my dears,” Snow says. “Don’t you look lovely.” His smile seems less sinister now, and his voice is warm. I hate that. Snow’s family humanizes him, and I’d rather not think of him as human, since he certainly doesn’t think that of us.

“Hi, Daddy.” His daughter steps up onto the dais, followed closely by her husband.

Snow kisses his daughter’s cheek and shakes her husband’s hand. “Forgive me; I’ve forgotten my manners.” He extends his arm in my direction. “May I present Finnick Odair.”

I extend my hand in the family’s direction. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Acantha Snow,” the daughter says, taking my hand. She introduces her husband and then her daughters. I kiss their hands. The younger one starts giggling. Her sister looks horrified. I’m about to channel Eefa and fade into the background but the husband insists I have a drink with them.

Fuck.

“I don’t want to intrude,” I say.

“Nonsense.” Snow waves down an Avox with a tray of posca and hands glasses out to us. “To the Seventieth Hunger Games.”

“To the Hunger Games,” we echo.

I kill my drink in one go and – thank God – they let me excuse myself without making small talk about dead tributes.

I reenter the throng of people and push my way through. Johanna is still beside the fountain. She’s collected an impressive arrangement of posca, liquor, and wine. “Well done,” I say.

“That’s not all. I figured, if you really want to get fucked up, we should go big.” She opens a tiny wooden box. There’s a neon pink powder inside that I’ve seen before at clubs but I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t really care.

“Tomorrow I’m getting back on the wagon,” I say. I refuse to develop a problem, to become like Broadsea or Haymitch or Chaff, and I certainly refuse to shoot up on morphling every other hour like Lor from 6 does.

“Tomorrow,” Johanna agrees. “But tonight let’s fall off.”

“Agreed.”


	10. Chapter 10

(FINNICK)

They summon me, Blight, Cashmere, and Enobaria to an interview with Caesar Flickerman to discuss what happened with our tributes yesterday. They wanted Johanna to be on the panel, but she’s hung over and Caesar can’t stand her in general, so Blight takes over. I’d prefer Enobaria be replace, too – ideally by Lyme, but she’s too sympathetic for these blood-and-gore interviews. She doesn’t play up her victor persona.

I’m hung over, too, but there’s no getting out of this, especially after Snow cut me a break last night. Somes brings me some sort of concoction to calm my stomach after I barf in the kitchen sink. He’s one of those people that isn’t bothered by vomit at all, and I wonder if it has something to do with his life before he was an Avox. I know the ones from District 3 are usually electricians or techies; District 6 ones work in garages, doing repairs on trams and cars. I know the ones from the Capitol are usually servants, forced to wait on their former peers so they never forget their new status.

I down the drink in one go and hand him back the empty glass. “Is this what you make for Broadsea?”

He nods.

“Does it work?”

He bobbles his head in a way that I think means, _Not really_ or _Sometimes_.

“Fantastic.”

My stylist keeps quiet again. She’s usually very chatty and I usually don’t mind, but it was a rough night. And a rough morning.

When she’s done “sprucing me up” – a phrase Johanna taught me – I thank her and promise to be in a better mood next time.

She puckers her lips, which have been surgically altered to form a heart shape, and gives me a disproving look. “Mm-hmm.”

I like her much better than the last one.

I’m the third to arrive after Cashmere and Enobaria. Caesar greets me with an oversized smile and a handshake. “Finnick! Wonderful to see you as always. How have you been?”

I put on my best smile. “Can’t complain. And you?”

“Wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful! I was just telling Cashmere here how exciting these Games are already.” He leans forward slightly and lowers his voice as if to tell me a secret. “Between you and me, I was a little disappointed with the lack of action last year.”

“I think Timothy would disagree,” I say.

Cashmere whips out a few of her beloved blackberry cigarettes and offers them around. “Want one?”

“Sure.” I pluck one from her outstretched hand.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid blackberry isn’t my flavor,” says Caesar.

Enobaria spits, “I don’t smoke.”

Blight shows up out of breath. “Sorry. Overslept.”

We settle in around the table as Caesar starts his vocal warmups. I put out my cigarette as makeup artists apply an extra layer of powder to Blight’s sweaty forehead.

“ _I saw a kitten eating chicken in the kitchen_.” Caesar over-pronounces each word. “ _I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit_.”

“Could we get some coffee maybe?” I ask no one in particular.

One of the production assistants comes bounding over with a huge mug. “Sugar, sir?”

“Yes. Lots of sugar.”

“Can I get a water?” Blight asks.

The assistant smiles politely, but the look in her eyes suggests she wants to smack him. “Of course.” How dare he interrupt her conversation with the illustrious Finnick Odair? She could be the woman to finally make that philanderer settle down! But now she’ll never know because some idiot wanted water.

 _“Betty bought some butter, but, said she, the butter’s bitter. If I put the butter in my batter, it will make my batter bitter_.”

Cashmere lights another cigarette which we share. We take turns dragging and blowing out ribbons of pale purple smoke. Cashmere can blow out perfect blackberry-scented rings. I can't eat blackberries anymore because they remind me of Cashmere, of her cigarettes, of the way she tastes when we're forced to kiss. 

“ _But a bit of better butter will make my bitter batter better. So Betty bought the better butter, better than the bitter butter, put it in her batter, and made her bitter batter better. It was better Betty bought some better butter_.”

The assistant gives me and Blight our beverages as the director counts down. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” He points at Caesar to let him know he’s live.

“Good morning, Panem!” Caesar begins. “Yesterday, we witnessed the first major showdown between tributes following the bloodbath. Career tribute Piers Whitaker of District Four died trying to protect his counterpart, Annie Cresta, from his Career allies. Annie wounded Gad Centaury of District Seven, leaving his allies no choice but to kill him. Let’s take a look at that footage one more time.”

I concentrate on drinking my coffee while they play the clip.

Caesar directs the first question to me. “Now Finnick, I think what everyone at home is wondering – what do you make of Annie Cresta’s actions? I must say I was surprised. She didn’t strike me as being capable of such . . . _violence_.” He probably wanted to say _savagery_ or _barbarism_ but the whole thing is savage and barbaric. Needed to come up with a different word. “As her mentor, can you offer us any insight?”

This would be a great question for Johanna, who played the weakling when she was in the arena at first, but shocked the world with her violent attacks on the other tributes.

“You never know what someone is capable of until you put them in a situation like that,” I say. “I think that since we made it through those situations, victors know ourselves better than most.”

Caesar is nodding his head as he listens intently. “Mm-hmm.” He turns to Enobaria and asks her what she thinks of that statement.

Enobaria is a psycho but somehow doesn’t even make my list of the top five worst victors. What really puts me off about her is her teeth. In the final battle of her Games, she was pinned down by a boy twice her size and couldn’t move her arms or legs. The only weapon she had was her teeth, which she used to tear his neck wide open. That doesn’t bother me: she did what she had to do to survive. What does bother me is the fact that she had her teeth filed into fangs as an homage. I don’t know if she did it because she thought it would be a funny or if she plans to weaponize them again in the future.

“I agree,” she says to Caesar. “And I think all of our tributes are starting to understand who they are after this.”

“Oh, certainly. But what I want to know –” he puts his fingertips on the table and leans forward a bit “– is what do we think of Annie defeating Gad like that? Blight, any thoughts?”

Blight’s right in the middle of gulping down orange juice when Caesar asks the question so Cashmere answers instead. “Caesar, there’s always a longshot in the Games, and they always get farther than we expect. If you ask me, I think Gad was a bit too confident in his abilities.”

“There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance,” Caesar says. “Don’t you think so?” he asks me with a chuckle.

“Me? Caesar, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” I flash a shmoozy smile at him.

“Finnick, so saucy!” Caesar’s oversized teeth steal the show when he opens his mouth to chuckle.

I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I vomit up Somes’s tonic and everything I’ve eaten in the last three days. I’m washing my mouth out over the sink when one of the televisions in the bathroom – they have televisions in nearly every room – cuts to a shot of Annie Cresta opening her eyes.

(ANNIE)

I’m on the docks. I know that because I’m wet and I’m all nestled up in ropes. And I can smell the wetness. The water against the concrete edge of the port. I don’t like that smell. I don’t like it anymore.

My eyelids are heavy. There’s gunk in the corners the way there is sometimes when somebody wakes me up in the middle of the night. But it’s not the night. I don’t think it is. The air at night feels difference from this. The air at home feels different from this. So do the ropes on the dock.

I make my eyes open. I’m not on the dock by the water. There is no dock and there is no water. Concrete and rain and vines and the vines have me all tangled up and I don’t know where I am.

I know I should stand. Should walk. I’m not supposed to stay here but I can’t remember why.

Sit up. But my head hurts. Let’s go back to bed. No, no. Can’t do that. Get up up up. Gonna fall back down – no, hang onto the vines that feel like rigging and don’t fall down again, Annie!

 _My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate_ –

Silver thing floats down and lands at my feet. Parachute. A gift! I open it up as fast as I can but it’s nothing, just the cannister itself. A water bottle! I can use it for water.

But I had a water bottle. I just had it I just had it it was just I was just –

Can’t breathe. Hands on me squeezing me squeezing my neck and Piers is screaming and my thumbs are in his eyes and I look down at my hands and there’s jelly on them but not jam-jelly it’s jelly from the eyes from his eyes from his eyes from his eyes and Piers is screaming and I cover my ears to block out the sound but there’s still jelly on my hands and it gets on my face and in my hair and I try to clean it clean it but it won’t go away I try to scrape it off on a concrete wall and I scrape my skin off too.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

(FINNICK)

There are bruises across her neck in the shape of Gad’s hands where he choked her. it looks excruciatingly painful. The damage is enough that I doubt she’d even be able to swallow a sip of water.

I wince when she begins to sing, partially because of how painful it must be and partially because it’s – well, terrifying. Her squeaky, scratchy voice sends chills down my spine.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

She abruptly covers her ears like she’s trying to block out a sound, but the microphones in the arena don’t pick anything up. She tears her hands away and looks down at them. They’re still stained with blood.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” She starts clawing at her own hands like she’s trying to peel something off – the blood, probably. When that doesn’t work, she presses her palms into a nearby cinderblock and drags her hands down it so hard that she scrapes off some of her skin and smears blood on the block.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

She lies back down among the vines and curls in on herself.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Mr. Odair?” It sounds like the production assistant from before. “They want you on stage.” I don’t respond. “Mr. Odair? Are you in there?”

I shut my eyes and sigh. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Blight and the others are leaving just as I come back to the stage. Caesar is looking at the monitor on the desk in front of him with a very strange expression. I know we’re not being recorded when I sit down and he asks me, “What on earth is she doing?”

“Singing, I guess.”

The song ends and Annie burrows into her little nest and falls asleep again. Caesar lets me go after we establish that the song is an old nursery rhyme and Annie’s in shock, and that there are nine far more interesting tributes to focus on, like the ailing tribute from District 2 or the boy from District 10 who captures and eats small mutts. 

Maybe when Annie wakes up she’ll be normal again.


	11. Chapter 11

(ANNIE)

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

And the family lives in the house and the mother killed the girl and the father ate the girl and the sister hid the body and the girl becomes a bird.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me_

_My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

And then the bird sings and sings until the family goes mad and they kill themselves one by one and the bird is happy and the bird is free.

Thirsty. Raining. Water. Fresh water. Don’t drink seawater no matter how thirsty you get cause it makes you sick cause the salt is no good. Daddy said so.

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet . . ._

Daddy sings, too. About the bird girl. Daddy has a nice voice but not as nice as Bosun’s and Daddy’s voice ran away when I was fourteen and he died in an accident at the fishery. A rope got wound around his ankle somehow and it pulled him into the water and the rope pulled harder and harder until his foot popped off of his leg and he bled out in the water because nobody could get to him in time to stop it.

_What a pretty bird am I!_

I wonder if he got scared when he died or if he would be like me and want the other foot popped off, too, so it could be symmetrical. You have to be symmetrical.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me_

Mommy died when we were born cause me or Bosun ripped her open after three days of suffering and she bled to death, too. Blood and blood and blood. Aunt Chelsea says it’s our fault for killing her and she misses her sister and it’s not fair that she’s gone and we’re both still alive when she bled to death open after three days of suffering. She doesn’t like that Daddy gave me the same name as my mommy because I don’t deserve it because I ripped her open after three days of suffering and she bled to death and she bled to death and I don’t deserve it because she bled to death.

_My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

There were oceans and oceans of blood when Piers’s head fell off and sometimes the ocean tries to swallow me at night when I sleep but I don’t want to drown because Daddy drowned and it’s no good no good no good because _my mother she butchered me my father he ate me my sister little Ann-Marie she gathered up the bones of me_ . . .

Did Mommy get scared? Did Mommy get angry cause she didn’t want to die?

Maybe I should be angry but I can’t remember why and I’m too tired to be angry or be anything to even be a person.

I’m a pretty bird.

There are big puddles here where the concrete cracks with little fish in them and I eat the fish and the bones get stuck in my throat. The puddle water is no good because I drank it and it made me sick and I got some on my clothes and the sick smells bad but I have to stay here because this is where the fish _my mother she butchered m_ e are and I need to eat the fish because the fish taste like at home and there’s nothing else to eat because I tried to eat a leaf and it made me sick it was no good _my father he ate me_ but there’s Katniss in a mud puddle but it’s not ready yet but I have to _my sister little Ann-Marie she gathered up the bones of me_ eat something and I take _and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper_ little bites.

_What a pretty bird am I!_

I forget how many of us there are but it doesn’t matter because none of us will be left in the end. Maybe one person but that person will be dead too be a zombie like in Dodge’s books a zombie like an Avox a zombie with nothing left inside because everything else in the world is all dead but I can’t remember why we’re dead or why we have to die I can’t remember all I remember is the song.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I’m tired. I want to sleep now. I want to sleep and not wake up.

Goodnight, Daddy. Goodnight, Bosun. Goodnight, Ondine. Goodnight, Liffey. Goodnight, Dodge. Goodnight, my favorite schoolteacher. Goodnight, Adrie. Goodnight, Coraline. Goodnight, Aunt Chelsea. Goodnight.

Goodnight, Finnick Odair. You’re too pretty. Too nice. Goodnight. I’ll miss you, Finnick Odair and your niceness and your prettiness.

Goodnight. I’ll miss you. Goodnight.

(FINNICK)

Annie does not get back to normal like I’d hoped. She actually gets worse over the next eight days.

She sings every day from the moment she wakes up to the moment she falls asleep. Some gruesome little nursery rhyme I vaguely remember from childhood.

Annie takes shelter on a mostly-intact balcony on the second floor of a decrepit building surrounded by muddy sinkholes that one hardly notices. They’re designed to suck in and suffocate anyone who steps in them.

Annie slips into one but manages to pull herself out, weeping and screaming all the while. The sounds drive the other tributes and even the animals away. She loses a boot in the process of freeing herself, leaving her even more exposed to the elements. But the sinkholes can at least protect her from a sudden attack if someone comes running at her while she’s not paying attention. And she doesn’t seem to be paying much attention.

There are Katniss plants around the edges of the sinkholes. Annie eats the roots and uses the stems for weaving. There are reeds and tall grasses she can use, too, and in less than a day she fashions herself a water bowl and a mat that she props up to use as a makeshift roof.

She obsessively sings that lullaby under her breath, so low and in such a scratchy yet childlike voice that it’s almost frightening.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

And then she begins the song again.

That don’t show Annie very often, maybe just as a square in the corner of the screen to show that she is alive. The main picture is always where the action is, but other, less interesting tributes pop up in the square once in a while to remind viewers that they’re alive.

It’s down to the last nine tributes and the odds have been upended.

Seegred, the savvy female tribute from District 3, disables a drone by throwing rocks at it until it crashes. From there, she pulls the thing apart and reconstructs it into a handheld weapon that shocks the other people that it touches – not enough to kill them, but enough to disable them for a few minutes. It’s with this weapon that she’s able to incapacitate the boy from District 8 when they cross paths. She uses a knife to finish him.

That’s eight left.

Beetee and Wiress, the only living victors from 3, are cautiously excited. She has a real shot at winning. Beetee in particular is impressed with her ingenuity with the drone. He used wires from a drone, too. He also pried a camera out of a tree and used the wires from that to construct an elaborate trap to electrocute the other remaining tributes. It’s how he won his games.

The perpetual rain rots the food in the Cornucopia. Euphemia of District 2 gets horribly ill from eating a piece of moldy bread. Her body is already shutting down due to an infection, and she’s gone within two days.

That leaves Shine, Cash, Ryker, Seegred, Annie, Axle, Millet, and Hock. The final eight tributes, which means it’s time for the interviews.

Camera crews are dispatched to 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9, and 10 to get the scoop on each tribute’s home life. There are two camera crews headed to District 1 since both of their tributes are still alive.

Shine and Cash’s families are smug, Cash’s more so. Of course their children have made it into the top eight. Why wouldn’t they? Shine’s always been driven to be the best at whatever she does, and Cash has an abundance of natural talent.

The camera crew interviews their trainers, too. You aren’t technically allowed to train for the Games, so trainers usually call themselves family friends. One trainer/family friend who worked with both Cash and Shine takes center stage at the end.

“Which of your two tributes do you think is more likely to win?” the interviewer asks.

The trainer looks upset at first but gives it serious thought. “I think Shine has worked harder to get where she is,” he finally says. Very diplomatic.

District 2 always looks like a wasteland on camera, which I guess it is. All mountains, no grass, hardly any trees.

Ryker’s family and friends have that serious intensity that most District 2 people possess. I suppose mountain-climbing, rock-smashing, and kissing Capitol ass doesn’t leave much room for leisure. Or space for a personality to develop.

Ryker’s friends are just as stone-faced when they talk about how strong he’s always been, how he was always the best climber and the best stonemason. He grew up dreaming of the glory of the Hunger Games. Most of us collectively roll our eyes at that.

They interview Seegred’s family in their little District 3 apartment. I’ve always felt like 3 isn’t big enough for all its people and its industry, even though I’ve only been there once. There are smoke stacks everywhere. Multi-story buildings are set up in a grid system, and most of the streets between them are claustrophobically narrow.

Seegred’s tall mother, small-statured father, and three nearly identical sisters are proud and excited. She’s always been resourceful and creative, always used the raw materials around her to come up with great new inventions. One of her schoolteachers explains that she skipped two grades in school because she was just so bright.

The interviewer finishes, as always, with the hardest question. “What do you think her odds are going forward?”

“Better than people will give her credit for,” one of the sisters says. “It’s not always about being fast or strong. It’s about being smart. And she’s smarter than all of them combined.”

The interviews with Annie’s family and friends are uncomfortable, to say the least. Her cousins admit she’s always been a bit odd. “I’m not really surprised that she’s sort of cracked up,” the younger of the two says. “Most of the time, she’s off in her own little world.”

“She’s normal,” the older one interjects, holding her hands out like she’s telling the interviewer to slow down. “She’s not, like, _off_ or anything. She’s just weird.”

They interview Annie’s brother separately. He’s furious at his cousins and at Panem as a whole. “What does it matter if she sings?” he spits. “If it makes her feel better and keeps her going, I don’t see the problem. And how would _you_ react if you were in her situation?” It’s not clear if he’s asking the interviewer or the audience. “You can’t say anything about it unless you’ve been where she is. All right?”

Her friends are a mixed bag. One of them, a blonde girl that looks vaguely familiar, is crying so much that she can hardly get a word out. She manages to say that she’s lost people in the arena before and she’s so proud of Annie for making it this far.

Eefa’s grandson Dodge is as chatty at ever. “I’ve known Annie for as long as I can remember,” he says. “I’ve been best friends with her brother all my life. She’s like another one of my sisters.” The interviewer tries to ask a question, but Dodge keeps talking. “You know, she’s sweet and friendly. And I don’t need to tell you how smart she is. You can _see_ how smart she is. She’s got food, she’s got shelter. She’s resourceful. She’s tough – she’s always been tough. You know, she broke my cousin’s nose when we were little. It was an accident, but she still broke his nose.”

Eefa can’t be bothered to come out of her room, even to watch her favorite grandchild talk to his little heart’s content.

An old teacher of Annie’s named Mrs. Healey talks about what a sweet child Annie was, how she always considered her a daughter in some ways despite the fact that she was only twenty-three when she and Annie met. “She’d always hug me in the morning when she came into school and in the afternoon when she left. She wants everyone around her to be happy whether or not they’re her friends. And if she loves someone, she will love that person with every bit of her heart. That’s just who she is.” That smooths things over a bit. People love that tearjerker shit. And she didn’t talk about Annie’s mental state. That’s even better.

They don’t air the answers to “What do you think her odds are at this point?” which is probably for the best.

“These interviews are right in the middle of it,” Proteus says as he, Mags, and I watch from our living area in the training center. “Four tributes before, three tributes after. People are more likely to remember the ones at the beginning or the end.”

“The teacher was good,” I say. “Very sympathetic. It’s better than they ended with her instead of one of the family members.”

Mags shakes her head sadly. “Her cousins shouldn’t talk about her that way. It’s unkind.”

“I’m sure the brother will set them straight,” I say darkly.

Everyone’s a little surprised that Axle, the thirteen-year-old tribute from District 6, has made it this far. His expansive family – he’s the second youngest of ten children – is just so grateful that he’s still alive, that he’s made it this far, that he’s just been so brave. His mother cries a lot. It’s all very sympathetic.

“Do you think we have it easier than other tributes’ parents?” the interviewer asks. “You have so many other children. If you lose Axle, you still have all of them.”

The mother flushes with rage. “If my son dies, then my son _dies_. There’s nothing _easy_ about that.” They stop broadcasting her interview at that point, though I’m sure the mother has a hell of a lot more to say.

The interviewer asks some of the family’s neighbors how the district in general will feel if they have another victor this year after Timothy last year. “Only District One and District Two have ever had back-to-back victories. Do you think a second win would elevate your tributes in the future?”

“Every year is different and so is every tribute,” a neighbor says. That’s the best answer any of them can come up with.

Millet’s family has that serious, severe look about them that most people from 9 and 11 have, 11 especially. A lifetime of hard labor and suppression have made them angry and determined and strong.

“Millet used to get bullied in school because she was tinier than everybody else,” a friend says. “So she taught herself how to fight. And since she couldn’t reach very far, she’d use a broom or a rake or something to hit them without getting close enough for them to hit her. Like she’s using now in the arena.”

“What do you think her odds are at this point?” the interviewer asks.

“High,” says the friend. “She’ll make it far. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wins. You shouldn’t be either.”

Down in the muddy expanse of District 10, Hock’s loved ones are not as optimistic. In fact, they seem resigned to his death. He has two brothers, one older one younger. The older one is recently married. He says he’s just glad Hock got to see the wedding.

They’ve all washed up for the interview and changed into their best clothes, but they’re still covered in dirt and grass stains the same way District 12 people are always covered in coal dust. I can’t imagine anyone the livestock district smells very good no matter how many baths they take.

Hock’s family says they don’t know what his odds of winning are. They don’t even consider the question before giving that answer.

They’re really not giving him much credit, if you ask me. Nobody is. He’s been feeding himself by snaring rats and feral cats. There isn’t much meat on either, but he cracks the bones and sucks out the marrow. Marrow is almost pure fat. The boy doesn’t lose a single pound from hunger.

Everybody forgets about Annie’s weird family and pity Hock instead, which I guess is for the best.


	12. Chapter 12

(FINNICK)

Millet and Cash have encountered each other on one of the endless cement boulevards. The pavement is uneven and cracked, and there are a handful of those muddy sinkholes strewn about. Great place for a showdown.

Millet runs from Cash at first. She’s slim and slightly muscular and fast as the wind; she could probably outrun him. She doesn’t have much in the way of weapons: a small knife with a blade as long as my thumb (which is all but useless) and a spear. She broke the head off of it and uses as a knife; she uses the shaft of the spear as a long-range weapon.

Cash chucks a spear in her direction; it misses by only an inch or two.

He starts to give chase. When he’s close enough, Millet suddenly whips around to face him and strikes him in the head with her staff. He stumbles; Millet whacks him again in the back of the knee, knocking him to the ground.

But Cash still has his wits about him. He uses the knife in his hand to stab her in the calf. She falls as he stands. He thrusts his knee forward and hits her in the face, breaking her nose. She coughs out a mouthful of blood and a tooth on the ground. All seems lost for her – until she punches Cash right in the groin. He stumbles backwards.

Millet forces herself to her feet and uses her staff to beat him back toward one of the sinkholes until he stumbles in. He fails to pull himself out the way Annie did and dies of suffocation a few minutes later. Millet gets double the sponsors she had already, and Teff, one of the victors from her district, showers her with gifts of food and clothing. People start chanting Millet’s name both on the rooftop where the party is and in the streets below.

Seven tributes left.

Millet was already a favorite when she entered the arena, but Seegred and that boy were long shots at best. And Cash and Euphemia were top contenders. With more than half their allies gone, the surviving Careers are becoming less and less likely to win. Seegred and Millet are nearly tied in the betting pool of who will win.

No one’s quite sure about Annie. She’s partially sheltered thanks to the mat she wove. She finds enough food to keep herself from starving. She defeated Gad, another favorite more than twice her size, without any weapons, but she’s “cracking a bit,” as Caesar puts it, which lowers her odds. She never stops singing that song.

Tributes crack every so often. The most recent to do so was Titus of District 6 in Johanna’s Games, who started eating his fellow tributes out of some mixture of hunger and insanity. _Insanity_. They threw that word around the moment Titus bit into a dead boy’s leg, but nobody’s said it about Annie yet. Tributes go into shock all the time and yes, she appears to have it worse than the others usually do, but there’s a good chance she’ll snap out of it.

The party goes ahead anyway, though it’s only for the seven tributes now. Millet’s sponsors and mentors are over the moon, as one might expect. Seegred’s sponsors are cheery, too, since she just killed someone a day ago. Things are looking good for these two young women. In fact, they’re vying for the top spot in the polls.

No one really seems to care that Cash is dead since Shine is still in the running. She’ll inherit all of her partner’s funds. And Cash was boring, anyway.

This is shaping up to be one of those years where a Career doesn’t win. It’s not unheard of – a non-Career usually wins every two or three years – but the change of pace is still exciting.

Of the non-career districts, 11 has the best odds on paper. A lifetime of labor and repression makes them physically and mentally strong, and angry and determined. They don’t win that often, though.

Most of the other districts are equally screwed: their industries have no application in the arena, and the tributes are usually poor and downtrodden children without much of a real chance. It’s generally agreed that no one under sixteen will ever win, so younger tributes’ odds are automatically lowered. I was the only victor under sixteen to win, and like everybody says, I’m the exception, not the rule.

(ANNIE)

I wake up to funny noise. I think it’s thunder at first, since it’s always raining here, but it’s growling. From an animal. Many animals. The sound gets closer.

Maybe I’ll run? No. I’ll stay here. I’m too tired to run. Too tired to do anything.

Let the animals come. I’ll stay here. I’ll stay here.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

The animal is a lot of animals. Dogs. Mutts that look like dogs. Black coats and bright orange eyes. Big sharp teeth that are so big and sharp that they can’t possibly fit in a dog’s mouth. Bodies built all square and muscular like the fighting dogs back home but bigger and scarier.

They are chasing a boy. A boy with black hair and baby fat still on his cheeks. He has a pack. Looks pretty full. Maybe from District 6? District 10? Doesn’t matter. Not sure who’s left anymore. No one is left anymore.

The boy is bleeding from just about everywhere. A big chunk of flesh dangles from his upper arm like one of the dogs tried to tear it off but couldn’t finish the job. I think I see his bone.

He stumbles and falls as he runs, only to get up and stumble again and again until the mutts are on top of him. I watch from my perch as they tear his flesh. It makes a funny noise as it rips.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

It’s not a nice thing to see but I can’ tear my eyes away. I’ve never seen somebody’s insides. He’s just a hunk of meat. So am I.

I heard in school that there’s a limit to how much pain the human body can feel. It’s not endless, which I think is nice. And sometimes if it really hurts too much, you just pass out because you can’t process it.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

A cannon goes off, and soon the mutts tire of their meal and move on. I climb down and run over as fast as I can to loot the body. I start taking everything I can reach, things I urgently need. Boots, socks, knife, pack.

I can feel the hovercraft somewhere behind me, waiting to take the body, and I return to my nest to go through the bag. I still take a long time to lay it out because everything has to be in order before I can eat or drink because everything has to be in order before I eat or drink because everything has to be in order before I can eat or drink and everything has to be in order. The sun goes down and the rain starts up.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

Bandages, a pack of raisins, a salve, a half-empty canteen of water, a knife.

I drink the water as fast as I can and set it out to collect rain. I’m happy because starvation is better than dehydration and now I won’t be dehydrated. I wasn’t really dehydrated before because of all the rain but I really don’t want to die like that, and now I’ll have two water bottles to drink from during the day when the sun is out.

The boots don’t fit me right but the socks are dry and ill-fitting boots are better than no boots.

I make another mark on the wall by the other marks for the other people that are dead. Seventeen. Is that right? I guess it doesn’t matter.

I smile and wiggle my toes inside the dry socks inside the dry boots and I think how happy I am to have two boots again because I lost one in the sinkholes so I only had one so I was uneven and both sides have to match and I almost took off my second boot because both sides have to match but I made myself keep it on even though both sides have to match because one boot is better than no boots but now I have two so I don’t have to worry.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

There are sixteen raisins, which is good because sixteen is a square number like four. So I eat four raisins and I have twelve yet and I can eat three more times because I have to eat them in fours because it has to all be square and both sides have to match.

(FINNICK)

Annie keeps a tally on the wall beside her. Anytime a cannon goes off, she uses a pointy rock to scratch a tally mark into the stone wall. 

She repeats her song over and over all day long until her throat is dry and she has to drink all of the water she’s gathered. She spends the rest of the day lying very still. Then she sets her bottles out again and lets the rain collect overnight.

She sometimes goes into these sort of frenzies and will spend an hour scrubbing her hands and arms raw. Luckily, these have only happened at night so far, so she can wash herself down as many times as she likes without worrying about dehydration or heat stroke, which have become major concerns for some of the tributes.

Things seemed to be speeding up when the boys from 1 and 6 died in two days, but they grind to a painful halt once Axle’s body is carried away. Nothing interesting happens for three days.

The surviving Careers are forced to leave the Cornucopia every day because the blistering sunlight heats the metal and essentially makes it an oven. Around sundown one day, there’s a torrential downpour that results in a flash flood that washes away the remaining food and supplies. But the flood isn’t enough because no one died or fought.

It’s no surprise when the Gamemakers decide that a feast is in order. Something to get things going again.

We’re at the endgame now. That’s almost comforting. I don’t want Annie to die, but I do want this to be over. I want to stop hearing that damn song playing over and over in my head. I keep all the windows open at night so I can hear the noise from below. It’s usually enough to drown out the song.

I open the windows in the bedroom when see my patron after the party. I don’t have to explain why I need background noise; he’s all for it because he thinks I’m an exhibitionist. I’m not an exhibitionist, but I am whatever the client wants me to be. So for a few minutes I’m an exhibitionist. 

He passes out as soon as he’s finished like most men do, so I don’t expect to get my customary payment of a secret. He wakes up every hour to pee though – something to do with his prostate that I _really_ don’t want to know about – and strikes up a flirtatious conversation.

“I hear you’re something of a collector,” he says as he fixes himself a drink.

“Oh?” I lift an eyebrow. “And what do you ‘hear’ that I collect?”

“Information. Secrets.” He hands me a glass tumbler identical to the one he holds, right down to the murky grey liquid inside. “A funny thing for a victor to collect.”

“You forget my first and favorite collection,” I say. “Conquests. Rich, handsome, important people like you.”

He chuckles. I think he’s actually convinced himself that I don’t mind being whored out, that maybe I even like it. Fine. At least he’s not weeping with guilt like some patrons do when we’re finished. I can’t stand that. Why buy me in the first place if it’s such a strain on the fabric of your morality? I’ll never make sense of these ultra-rich people.

“What sort of secrets do you like?”

“The juicer the better,” I say.

He takes a sip from his glass and frowns in thought. “Did you know I’m a perfumer?”

“I did. Don’t tell me your secret ingredient, though, that’s much too precious to share.”

He chuckles again. “I worked with the president’s gardener for a time.” I wonder if this is the same gardener that my other patron told me about, the one that fucks his identical twin. “And a few botanists. This was decades ago, long before you were born. We were engineering the roses in the president’s garden to have a stronger smell. Too strong, if you ask me. I prefer subtler stuff.”

“Sure.”

“But it’s what the president wanted. These are the same roses he pins on his lapels, mind you,” he says. “They reek. And I couldn’t understand why until I met him myself. He’s got something wrong with his mouth. Open sores that never heal.”

Gross.

“So he uses the flowers to cover the blood smell,” I say. “That’s not as exciting as I’d hoped.”

His eyes light up. “Oh, that’s not the secret,” my patron says. “The secret is how Snow developed those sores in the first place.”


	13. Chapter 13

(FINNICK)

I wake up just before dawn in a patron’s bed. I’m surprised I slept at all after what he told me last night about Snow. “They never officially caught who did it,” he says. “ _Officially_ , they never even had a suspect. Everybody’s just guessing.”

I’m not surprised, not really. Snow is indirectly responsible for thousands of deaths. It doesn’t make him any less guilty that he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. But I suppose some things are just too important to delegate, and poison is a way to handle things directly without too much effort.

But it’s not important right now. I can think about all that later. Right now I have to focus on what’s happening in the arena – Annie Cresta and the upcoming feast.

It’s too late to make a break for the Training Center; I’d never get there in time to see the feast. I climb out of bed and head into the living room where an Avox is dusting shelves. He turns on the television without my needing to ask him.

“Thanks,” I say, flopping down on the couch. I didn’t feel the need to cover myself in any way when I left the bedroom since I’m usually naked as often as I’m clothed. Interestingly, all the Avoxes I’ve encountered are unphased by nudity since their employers – owners? – probably have them wiping their riches asses for them.

He mimes eating and drinking _. Can I get you anything?_

“Sure, thanks.”

He holds up his hands, shrugging. _What do you want_?

“An apple, if you’ve got any. Maybe a glass of posca.”

He nods and hustles into the kitchen as Caesar appears on screen and begins his introduction. “People of Panem, we find ourselves at the final five tributes of the Seventieth Hunger Games, two Careers and three non-Careers. At this point, it’s anybody’s game. Claudius?”

Claudius Templesmith clears his throat. I’m not sure if Caesar got more sleep or if he just has better makeup artist, but Claudius looks to be in terrible shape compared to him. “Yes, Caesar,” he rasps. “But with very little food available, this feast could be the last shot for some of them.”

They keep twittering as the tributes arrive, each hiding along the tree line or in the doorways of crumbling buildings.

The Avox comes in carrying a round silver tray, which he sets down on the coffee table in front of me. There’s an absurdly large flute of posca at the center, and sliced green apples bloom like flower petals around it. Proteus would appreciate the presentation. “Thank you.”

The Avox bows and exits just as the feast table emerges from the ground in front of the cornucopia. It ascends slowly enough for everyone to get a good look at the items. It’s mostly food but there’s a couple tubes of ointment and even a rain jacket. Nothing’s in a pack or anything, though. It’s all loose, even the berries sprinkled around.

Millet, the Careers, and Hock from are the only ones to formally show up for the feast. Seegred has hidden herself among the bricks and trees that ring one side of the arena. Annie, of course, remains on her balcony.

Millet has reattached the spearhead to its shaft to make it into a long-range weapon again. She struggled to connect the two at first, but her mentors sent in a ball of twine to help her. it seems secure enough now, but I’m sure she’ll grab another from the Cornucopia if she has the chance.

I’m sure some of them are hoping for clothes in addition to food, since the constant damp leads to the growth of irritating mold. A couple are smart enough to take their clothes out and lay them in the sun during the day, but the mold never totally goes away. The mold causes allergic reactions – congestion, rashes – so medicine is in high demand.

I’m not totally sure why Hock is there. He seems to be doing just fine on his own with those feral cats.

His backpack it already cracked open so he can shovel things into it without fumbling with the zipper. I’m sure some people think he just didn’t notice it was open, but I think it’s deliberate. I think he’s much smarter than people give him credit for. Ryker and Shine don’t have backpacks; they’re probably stashed somewhere.

The gong sounds, marking the beginning of the feast, and Shine, Ryker, and Hock run for the table. But not Millet. She lifts her spear, adjusting it in her hands, and takes aim at Ryker. It lands in his shoulder, the shock of it knocking him to his knees. The very tip of the blade pokes through his shirt on the other side. He’s got enough nerve (and flexibility) to reach around his back and pull it out himself, but he was injured in his throwing arm, so he can’t use the spear himself. Millet dashes for the table while he’s down.

Shine runs to her ally’s aid, but she doesn’t notice Hock barreling toward her and fails to get out of his way in time. He slams into her so hard that we can hear the sound she makes when the air is knocked from her body. He leaves her gasping on the ground.

Ryker has recovered enough to get back in the game. He goes charging toward Hock, Millet, and the table of supplies. He grasps his sword in both hands and starts swinging it runs so that he slashes Millet in the arm the moment he gets close enough. She falls to the ground to avoid the next swing. Hock and Ryker start to face off, and Millet uses the opportunity to gather a spear and two knives from the weapons pile, which everyone else seems to have forgotten about.

She stays crouched on the ground in the hopes that Hock and Ryker will stay too absorbed in their own fight to notice her lying in wait.

Hock drives his dagger through Ryker’s forearm between the bones. He grabs an armful of food and medicine plus a thin windbreaker and runs while he has the chance, leaving the knife imbedded in the other tribute’s flesh.

“Oh!” I can practically hear Caesar flinch. Claudius sharply sucks air in between his teeth, a hiss of sympathetic pain.

Shine chooses to go to Ryker and the table of food rather than pursue Hock.

Millet grabs a long loaf of bread and a tube of medicine and runs in Hock’s direction before Shine gets too close.

Ryker curses through clenched teeth as Shine applies pressure to his wound. She won’t want to pursue the others alone, and even if Ryker wasn’t injured, there would be no reason to track the others since they have what Caesar calls the lion’s share of the food.

Just when all hope seems lost and Caesar has resigned himself to getting no deaths out of the feast, Seegred makes her appearance. “Ooh! Ooh! Look, look, look!” he gasps excitedly.

Hock makes it less than two blocks before Seegred appears in front of him, blocking his path. He charges her, and at the last minute she pulls out her weapon and shocks him. He recovers faster than she expects, though, and she’s forced to flee with only a couple of apples in her arms.

Millet suddenly appears and spears Hock in the gut before he has the chance to get back on his feet. She pulls the pack from his shoulders as he bleeds and yanks the windbreaker from underneath him. She turns her attention to Seegred, but she’s already out of throwing range. She hesitates, nostrils flared, as she considers whether or not to go after the girl who, according to the oddsmakers, is now her top contender.

“You know, I can’t decide who I like better: Millet or Seegred,” Caesar says.

“Seegred might be even sharper than Beetee,” Claudius says. He’s referencing Beetee Latier of District 3, one of Seegred’s mentors, who used his tech savvy to electrocute his remaining six opponents in the arena. He is simultaneously the smartest and weirdest person I’ve ever met. Well, second-weirdest after fellow victor Wiress.

Hock’s throat bobs as he drinks in air. His skin has lost all of its color; he has only minutes left before he bleeds out.

Millet looks behind her and then back in the direction Seegred ran. She’s still making up her mind about whether or not it’s worth it to follow her. She decides it isn’t.

Millet makes her way deeper into the arena, putting as much distance between herself and the Careers as possible. She walks for at least half an hour while Caesar and Claudius discuss the shifting odds after the feast.

And then she stumbles on Annie’s hiding place. Annie isn’t visible from the ground; it’s the song that gives her away.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

Annie becomes aware of the other girl’s presence and stops singing. She peers over the edge of her balcony and she and Millet lock eyes for a moment.

Annie regards Millet as she would a stray cat. She settles back into her spot and resumes her song. Millet looks the structure up and down, adjusting her staff in her hands. There are thick vines all across the building’s façade, so climbing up shouldn’t be a problem. Millet’s problem is what to do with her spears and her newly acquired food. She keeps the pack on and lays the spears on her collar bones and tucks her neck against her chest to hold them there.

She manages to climb about five feet up before making a misstep. Her spears fall away. She has the sense to hang on to the vines so she doesn’t fall back to the ground. Instead, it’s an unpleasant, unsteady slide. She falls on her ass of course but at least she doesn’t break anything.

She gets up and dusts herself off, picks up her spears, and looks back up at Annie’s balcony one last time before heading off.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it comes out as a sigh of relief. Annie’s all right. At least for now. That’s both a blessing and a curse, though. I don’t want her to die, but she’s going to anyway and I just want to get it over with.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Caesar says. “It would be interesting to see Annie and Millet in combat. Millet would be the obvious favorite to win, but Annie defeated a major contender without any weapons. But her abilities have probably diminished since going into shock.”

The cameras close in on Annie's face. She looks strangely relaxed as she tightens the reeds and grasses in the mat she uses as a roof. I remember somebody saying she weaves nets for a living. I suppose this is a familiar activity for her; that's why it's relaxing.

But she's still singing. She's always singing.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie  
She gathered up the bones of me_

_And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

“I’ll tell you what, Claudius, Annie may be the one to watch in all of this,” Caesar says. “She’s in shock, obviously, but she’s been feeding herself from the ponds and sinkholes. She knows how to keep herself alive.”

“I hope we get the chance to see her in action,” Claudius agrees.

"That would certainly be something." The camera cuts from the arena to Caesar’s smiling face. “And now for the weather.”


	14. Chapter 14

(FINNICK)

The sun goes down and the rain returns full force. Shine and Ryker are hunting when it starts. They run into an ivy-covered building for shelter.

The stab wounds in Ryker’s arm and shoulder have taken on a greenish-grey hue by morning. Whatever it’s infected with is aggressive. The odds that he’ll heal on his own are slim to none, and there’s not much of a chance that his mentors will be able to send him whatever medicine it requires. The only way for him to survive will be to outlast the other tributes.

Shine and Ryker each take a deep drink of water before slowly pouring the rest over Ryker’s forearm. He clenches his jaw but doesn’t make a sound as shine proceeds to spread ointment along the cut. It’s not long, since the knife went straight through his arm, but the depth is more concerning since they can’t get to all of the damaged tissue.

She turns his arm over and spreads the salve on the exit wound. “How many are left?” Shine asks as she pulls bandages from her pack. She probably knows already; she’s just trying to distract Ryker.

“Um . . . you and me. The girls from Nine and Three. And the girl from Four.”

“You’re outnumbered four to one, boy.”

He snorts. “Beware the bonds of sisterhood.”

Shine chuckles. “Do you think you’re strong enough to go looking for them?”

“Not in this heat.”

That's when they hear the mutt snuffling, following their scent down the endless hallways. Shine helps pull Ryker to his feet and they start rushing away in the opposite direction of the mutt.

Between the heat and the pain in his arm and shoulder, Ryker is starting to struggle to make the sharp turns through the labyrinth-like halls without careening through the holes in the exterior of the building.

He starts to fall behind.

He reaches the fork after Shine has already turned left down the hallway. She’s nowhere in sight.

The bear roars somewhere behind him and Ryker decides to run right. The bear must hear him or smell him because it turns right at the fork without hesitation.

Ryker stumbles. His wound is bleeding. The bear is getting closer.

People all over the country are probably betting last-minute on whether or not Ryker will die, though I doubt many people will bet against it. 

On screen, Ryker comes to a stop at the next sharp turn and draws his sword to face the mutt.

The bear gets close and jumps; Ryker drives his sword down its throat but it’s too heavy. It has too much momentum.

Ryker and the bear crash into the unstable concrete wall behind them which breaks apart like a wet tissue.

Ryker doesn’t scream as he falls. The only sound comes when the bear lands on him moments later and breaks all the bones in his body.

Shine looks through a crack in a wall when the cannon sounds. Her last ally is dead, which is both good and bad: She doesn't need to be the one who kills him, which she probably would otherwise since there are so few tributes left, but she doesn't have anyone to help her eliminate them.

The camera cute to the other tributes to show their reactions. The cannon wakes Seegred from a deep sleep. It takes her a moment to get her bearings and realize another competitor is dead.

Millet, dozing among vines and tree roots, opens her eyes sharply. She smiles and goes back to sleep.

Annie is awake in her hideout, singing as always. _“My mother, she_ –” She gasps when the cannon goes off. She’s silent for a moment and picks up singing again as though nothing has happened. “ _My father he ate me_ . . .”

(ANNIE)

For a fraction of a second, when I first woke up this morning, I didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t afraid or confused. Just sleepy. But I can’t sleep anymore.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I don’t know about the others. I don’t know about myself. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t need to. It’s just floating now. Floating and sleep and pretty birds.

Just a little longer. This will only last for a little longer. I just have to wait just for a little bit. And then I’ll be a bird, too.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I think about Ms. Healey who’s my favorite teacher from when I was little. She was always nice to me. I liked to pretend that she was my mother sometimes because my mother died when Bosun and I were born and I really wanted to have one.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I find a little stick about as long as my finger and use it to draw pictures in the mud that’s always everywhere in here because it’s always raining. A ship on the sea, a horse on a mountain. Finnick Odair’s jawline. His eyebrows.

I’m no good at art but I’m happy to see Finnick, even if it’s just his disembodied features. He was nice to me. I bet he was nice to Liffey last year. I bet he’s nice to everybody but only when nobody is looking.

Finnick was fourteen years old and already pushing six feet when he entered his arena and he’s grown another four or five inches since then. Maybe six – I’m no good with guessing heights. I just know he’s much, much taller than me – ten inches? A foot? – and everybody looks short when they stand next to him.

People loved him right away and I did, too.

He was smart and charming and he never seemed scared at all even though he was where he was and all these things were happening to him because I think he maybe already knew he would win because how could he not?

He didn’t have any family but he had heaps and heaps of friends and in the interviews at the final eight tributes they all said how smart and charming he was and that he was good at fighting and that they were so sure that he would win. Everybody wanted him to win. Everybody would be pissed if he didn’t.

And when he got gifts he would smile and hold his hand out to catch them as they fell and one of the cameras would zoom in close to him and he’d wink or blow a kiss to say thanks and it was all over nine days after it started and then he went home.

Nine days for him. For this? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . Don’t know how many days I’ve been here. I think I’ve always been here. Always the arena and there was never anything before it. Everything else was just television just sounds and pictures but not this. This is sounds and pictures and textures and smells and taste. The smell and taste are wet bricks. Always wet bricks because it’s always raining.

Not always. Not anymore. Sometimes they put the sun out and there’s nowhere to hide from it and it sucks up all the water out of everything so you get hot and thirsty and you have to drink your water but it’s so hot and so sunny and there’s nowhere to get more water except at night now when it rains and it’s really cold and you can drink water while you shiver and you’re not thirsty anymore until they put the sun out again and burn you into sand and it’s not always raining anymore.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

Ryker’s picture is in the sky. How many left? One, two, three, four. Girl from 1, Girl from 3, Girl from 4, Girl from 9.

That’s good. Four is the best number because it’s square.

One two three four three two one two three four three two one two three four three two one two three four three two one two three four . . .

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I fall asleep singing the song and then I wake up when the sun comes out. I’m hungry. Not much katniss root left. Not much food. And there are no more katniss plants around the sinkholes for me to pull up because I ate them all and I ate most of the fish in the pools.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

So I eat the food that’s left cause I don’t want to eat it a bit at a time over a few days and I drink one of my water bottles and then the ground starts shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The endgame is at hand!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, lots of long ones coming after!

(ANNIE)

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I can’t remember anything before the song. I don’t think there was anything before. Just the song and the streets and the rain and the sun and the song and the song and the song.

The world is shaking but I’m not scared at first even though I see things falling down, even parts of my building parts of my balcony. That’s okay. I don’t mind if it’s like this.

And then sounds like cracks and waves hitting rocks and I do mind drowning.

I get up cause you gotta get up when there’s waves or they’ll smash you and I get up and I can’t see waves but I swear I hear them so I climb up up up the vines on the building and it reminds me of climbing on rigging at home and for a moment I’m very happy and then I see the water and I’m not happy anymore. But I’m not scared.

Hang on to the stones that border the roof. Hang on. Hang on. The water will come and it’ll wash you away. Deep breath deep breath deep deep deep breath before the water comes and then it does come.

The water is cold when it touches me. Raises goosebumps on my skin.

Between one and four minutes. The first thing anybody ever learns. Between one and four minutes for an adult to drown.

I keep my eyes shut when it runs through my hair because I’ve always liked feeling the water in my hair and I’m feeling it now maybe for the last time and if I concentrate on it enough maybe I’ll feel it forever because maybe it’ll wash me out to sea and I can be with the mermaids and I won’t be afraid of anything.

Hang on hang on hang on but I need air now cause I have to breathe so I keep hanging onto the bricks and I move myself up a little bit a little bit as far as I can so I can stick my nose in the air but I can’t stick it up that high and hold onto the rocks so I let go of the rocks and the water starts pushing me pushing me carrying me away but I need air.

I push up, up, up, up even though the water keeps pushing me sideways but I have to get air I have to get air four minutes for an adult to drown four minutes and I don’t know how many minutes it’s been.

But then there’s air. Air. My face is free my face and now my head my head and I can breathe in my nose and my mouth I’m going to live I’m going to live I’m going to –

Something knocks into me. Into my shoulder. And the things grabs onto me. Grabs onto my arm. And it starts pulling. And pulling.

A mutt! A killer! But I open my eyes and it’s not a mutt, it’s another tribute. From 3, I think. And she’s tugging at my clothes and pulling at my hair trying to keep me underwater so I can’t breathe.

She pulls at my shirt and the collar digs into my neck and I’m choking again like when Gad’s fingers were around my neck and I can’t breathe.

In her panic, the girl pushes me underwater. She’s going to drown me, whether she means to or not. She’s District 3. They don’t learn to swim there. I try to force her off of me, but her adrenaline gives her extra strength. She becomes aware of the fact that I’m fighting her and jabs something into my lower abdomen and I think it’s a knife. My mouth opens in an attempt to scream, but the sound is dulled into a shrill gargle by the water.

I flail until we’re face to face. She’s clawing at my face and hair, instinctively trying to push me under to keep her head above water, but my arm shoots out and the heel of my hand rams into her nose and I can hear the bone breaking and grinding . . .

She goes limp.

Water is everywhere pushing me further and further I don’t know which way is up my hands find what feels like tree bark and I dig my fingers into it so hard they start to bleed wrap myself around the tree pulling myself along it and praying that I’ll find air . . .

Suddenly my nose bursts through the surface. I put my face up and gulp down a lungful of air just before the water tears me away from the tree. I open my eyes underwater, and I can see a half-destroyed building just in front of me. The current is strong, but I grab onto one of the building’s stones and hang on as hard as I can. The water keeps coming, trapping my head underwater, but I’m not letting go no matter what. Not letting go not letting go I’m not letting go I’m not letting go.

 _My mother, she butchered me. My father, he ate me_ . . .

There’s a cannon, I think, but I can’t be sure because I can hardly hear anything over the sound of my blood rushing through my ears

_My sister, little Ann-Marie . . ._

The water slows and lowers enough for me to pull myself on to the stone slope – must’ve been a roof that caved in. I begin vomiting up water and blood and bile so furiously that it comes out of my nose, too. I still can’t breathe. It stops for a few seconds at a time – only long enough for me to cough and, if I’m lucky, suck in a mouthful of air – before the vomiting starts again. It’s all water and bile and it stings my throat.

Then there’s the shaking. Violent tremors that wrack my body, practically making it vibrate. My hand is pressed against the wound by my stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood that gushes from around the knife still buried in me.

 _She gathered up the bones of me_ . . .

Don’t care how many of us are left or where the others are. Don’t care about anything but air.

Finally, the vomiting stops and I’m able to gulp down breath after breath. It comes back out in choked sobs.

Lying in a pool of water and vomit and blood, blood coming out of the scratches on my hands and the hole in my stomach and I can taste blood in the back of my throat when I cough. The water is high enough that it flows around me, lapping high up on my legs. It cleans me as it passes.

The water’s still rising, but at a relaxed pace now, like drips filling up a cup. It’s almost soothing the way it flows around me. Like a bath.

 _And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper_ . . .

Suddenly I’m not concerned about anything. I’m going to die in the water. I’ve spent my whole life in and around it. Death by water is almost gentle. That’s the best I could hope for. I see Piers’s face in the water. He’s smiling, gesturing for me to join him. I’m too tired to get back into the water though, too sore. “Soon,” I promise.

There’s a cannon. Just one. And then Claudius Templesmith begins whispering in my ear.

“Ladies and gentlemen –”

_Tweet, tweet. What a pretty bird am I._

And then all dark.


	16. Chapter 16

(FINNICK)

I’m just getting out of the shower when the earthquake starts in the arena.

The industrial stone dam that lines a third of the arena starts to crack. Only a little at first. Steady, slow streams of water come through. And then all of it at once.

The screen splits into four different pictures, one of each remaining tribute.

Shine’s a good swimmer, being from District 1. She bends her knees and takes several deep breaths to prepare herself before the water washes over her. She dives in rather than letting the water overtake her. She swims with the current.

Seegred panics when she realizes what’s going on. She whirls on her heels, throwing herself as far forward as she can. She falls and skins her knee and the palms of her hands. She gets back up again and runs in a straight shot down the street, leaving her backpack of supplies and shocker-invention behind. The water keeps inching closer and closer. 

Millet also runs at first, but she realizes pretty quickly that it’s no use. She has the sense to hang onto something as the water washes over her, but it’s clear she won’t survive. District 9, like District 3, doesn’t teach their children how to swim, and she’s down on the street.

Annie is smart enough to climb up high before grabbing onto something solid and holding on as tight as she can. But I don’t know if it’s enough.

It takes six minutes for them all to die. Millet goes first. The only real action is Seegred trying to drown Annie, and Annie breaking her nose and knocking her unconscious. She dies soon after. Shine lasts the longest of the three runners-up. She keeps her head above water, then just her nose, and then exhaustion just takes over and she sinks down toward the bottom. And then there’s just Annie. Annie Cresta of District 4. Somehow she’s still alive.

She passes out before Claudius gets the chance to declare her the winner of this year’s Games. They pick her up with a big metal claw and lift her into the belly of a hovercraft, away from the arena.

I’m planted in front of the television in my room for it all, unable to move until after the announcement has been made. There’s movement in the main room, people talking excitedly. I move quickly, almost desperately to get to them without bothering to put on clothes; I’m at least wearing a towel, though. I need someone to explain what just happened because what I saw must be wrong.

I nearly stumble through the doorway. “Mags?”

“Finnick.” There’s a sad smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

“Was that . . . Is she . . .?” I can’t even string a full sentence together.

“Yes,” Proteus replies. I hardly noticed him a few feet behind Mags, talking with Eefa. “Annie Cresta is the victor of the Seventieth Hunger Games.” He isn’t the slightest bit flustered; he never is. Eefa isn’t showing much emotion, either. “It will take at least two hours, I think, for her to get back to the training center from where the arena is.”

“Mags?” I ask again. I need to hear it from her. “Is that . . ?”

“Yes,” Mags says. “She’s alive. We’re bringing her home.”

It starts to settle on me then. I’m shaking. I don’t think I should be shaking this much. My hands and knees are almost vibrating. “Fucking . . . shit.” I have to sit down on one of the couches.

“Language,” Broadsea singsongs from the window. He, at least, is showing emotion. A smile lights up his face – half of it, at least – as he looks down at the crowds that have gathered in the streets below. I faintly hear them chant my name.

“Get dressed,” Proteus says. “They’ll want you for interviews.”

All victors undergo some form of surgery when they get out of the arena to heal wounds or replace teeth or whatever it is they need to be pretty again. Not Broadsea or Chaff, of course, since Chaff chose not to get a false arm or have the scar on his cheek fixed, and not Broadsea because there was no way to make him pretty.

All five of us District 4 victors make it to the waiting room in the medical suite on the restricted side of the training center. It’s a plain but pleasant grey room with large windows and modern leather sofas. There’s a coffee table with a pink faux orchid in a vase at the center.

I can’t really follow what the doctors are saying. I only catch the highlights: Annie doesn’t have too much physical damage – the stab wound in the lower abdomen, vocal cord injury from being choked, calluses on her hands from scraping them against stone, and of course starvation and dehydration. Really just the usual stuff. If they say anything about why she’s in shock, I don’t hear it.

Could _I_ be in shock? My hands are still shaking from the rush of adrenaline that has yet to abate. I’m still having trouble digesting the fact that Annie Cresta is a victor. It seems surreal, like it did after I won. I felt like I wasn’t totally there – I couldn’t be totally there when part of me was still ready to slit throats with a butter knife. I slit the last runner-up’s throat. I struck her with the trident first, but it wasn’t an immediately fatal blow and I didn’t want to wait for her to die. Part of me thought she might stand up and start fighting again. So I knotted my fingers in her hair and pulled her face out of the ground and sliced her open.

But this is my first time having a victor, so I don’t know what a normal reaction is.

I look first at Proteus, District 4’s third victor; he’s witnessed Broadsea’s victory and my victory. Now Annie’s. He doesn’t seem bothered; his face and stance are as cool and calm as ever.

Mags, who mentored all of us, is fidgety, restless. Seeing Annie Cresta with her own two eyes is the only thing that will calm her. I wouldn’t mind that, either.

Broadsea is rubbing his forehead like he’s got a headache, which he probably does because he’s a drunk piece of shit. Eefa looks like she’s about to start pawing at the window. Fucking Eefa. I fight the urge to whack them. Why don’t they care?

“So what now?” I finally ask, interrupting whatever the doctors were going on about.

“ _Now_ , she’s in surgery,” one of the doctors says pointedly. He doesn’t like me. Most guys don’t.

His female colleague steps in. “We estimate it will take four hours. We’ll give you updates periodically.”

I bat my lashes and put on what Mags calls my chester-cat smile, which of course makes the female doctor weak in the knees. “Thank you.”

The male doctor tells us we might as well go back to our rooms since it’ll be a while. We convince Mags to go back and rest for an hour or two, and in the end Proteus and I are the ones who stay. I keep pacing back and forth across the floor while Proteus enjoys some sort of fancy coffee in one of the angular leather chairs.

“Is it like this every time?”

“Is what like this?” he asks casually.

“Waiting,” I bite out.

“For you it was like this, yes.” He sets the cup and saucer down on the table beside the orchid. “You weren’t too badly injured. Your surgery didn’t take very long. Broadsea’s went on for hours. Mags stayed the whole time. Even I didn’t have the patience for it. But she did.”

“She’s always patient.” I’m in such a state of agitation that it sounds like a complaint.

(ANNIE)

There are lights in my eyes when I open them. My limbs are stiff and sore, and not in the pleasant way you get from sleeping too long.

Then I start choking.

There’s something in my throat something keeping me from breathing I try to scream but instead I gag there are needles in my arms stinging me tear at them rip them out of me blood and medicine sprays across me and the bed I’m in try to pull the thing out of my mouth so I don’t choke to death but as I tug on it I throw up and I start drowning in that too . . .

Beeping sounds and alarms going off.

Where is the water? Where is the flood?

Mutt-men in masks and lab coats burst into the room and pin me down. I fight against them and try to scream but the thing in my throat distorts the sound. I still can’t breathe.

There’s a sharp pain in my neck – one of the mutts has stabbed me. Things start to go dark.

I don’t want this please please please I don’t want this leave me alone please just leave me alone I want the water I want I want –

 _Air_.

My eyes snap open and I’m staring straight into a white light. There are wires all around me. Then I notice the metal sensors stuck all on my chest under the thin fabric of my hospital gown. My throat is dry and my eyes are sore and –

“Annie?”

I snap my head towards the voice’s origin. And there he is. Sitting right beside my bed.

Finnick Odair.

Finnick is here with me I’m alive and I’m with him and nothing else matters. My limbs and head feel heavy and I’m confused like when I first woke up after Piers but I’m not afraid or alarmed. Not with him here. He is big and safe and solid.

 _Finnick_.

My hand instinctively flies out toward his. Reaching for him. My fingernails – torn to shreds from clawing at concrete – try to dig into his skin to get an anchor there. He doesn’t even seem fazed by it. He just takes my hand in his as gently as he can and flashes me something like a smile.

Finnick is here. He won’t hurt me. And he won’t let anybody else hurt me, either. I know he won’t. I just know.

He looks at me softly with those eyes and it feels like my heart has fallen into my stomach and they’ll both explode. The feeling scares me and I hold him tighter.

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he says in the sweetest, gentlest voice I’ve ever heard. His glittering green eyes are big and soft. “Don’t be scared. You’re in the medical bay in the Training Center. Mags is here, too – she just stepped out to get some water.”

Finnick is here. I am safe.

I tried not to think about him in the arena. I admit I wondered once or twice in the beginning if he’d be upset watching me die. If he would care. I think I should feel like an idiot for ever wondering that since I was constantly about to die, but even thinking about him made me feel better. 

But then Piers died and I stopped thinking about things and nothing felt like anything really and there was only ever the song but his face was still in my mind.

I feel him. I feel this.

I want to say something to him, anything – there are a million competing thoughts in my head – _I want to go home I want you to stay forever is it really over am I really alive_ – but they’re all so jumbled up that I say nothing at all. I just keep looking at him and gripping his hand.

Finnick is here. I am safe.

“They, uh – they’ve been fixing you up. You weren’t doing so well for a while,” he says after a moment. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, so quietly that I’m not sure if he heard me. But he smiles.

There’s a pause. “You woke up for a little while yesterday. Do you remember?” he asks.

I move my free hand to my throat.

“Yes, they told us about the breathing tube. How you reacted.” He leans forward. “Don’t be scared of the people here. They want to help you.”

I shake my head and breathe sharply. _I don’t trust them_.

“I know,” he says, as though I’d just spoken the words aloud. “But they won’t hurt you. Nobody’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

I shake my head again.

His voice is so sincere. “We’re gonna bring you home, all right? Back to District Four. Nobody will hurt you anymore. It’s all over now.”

My heart flutters in my chest. It catches me off-guard because why do I have butterflies at a time like this? Maybe it’s hunger pains or maybe I need to throw up but I don’t think that’s right.

Finnick looks concerned. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“No!”

Mags comes in then. Her face lights up when she sees me awake. “Annie!”

But she says it too loudly and my head starts pounding and my ears are ringing so I let go of Finnick and cover my ears with my hands to make the ringing stop and then I’m all alone again in the arena but if I just stay very still it will all be all right I just stay very still it will all be all right I just . . .

Noise. In the background. Voices. Two voices. One voice. Finnick.

I don’t know the words he’s saying but he says them in a nice way and I don’t think he’d be able to speak like that if we were in danger. And then I want to hear his words so I pull my hands off of my ears and grab onto him again.

Mags stands beside Finnick and reasserts that I’m safe and there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. “A couple of doctors are coming in a moment; they want to take a look at you.”

I go rigid. I don’t want doctors and I don’t want them to take looks and I want to be left alone. But Finnick stays. Finnick has to stay.

“It won’t hurt,” Mags promises. “And Finnick and I will be with you the whole time.”

“We won’t let anything bad happen to you,” Finnick agrees.

The door opens mere moments after I nod; they must’ve been listening in on us. Three doctors come in wearing pristine white clothing. They’re also wearing caps and masks, so I can’t properly see their faces. Maybe they don’t have faces at all.

They’re annoyed with me at first because I won’t let go of Finnick’s hand. But he doesn’t care and he keeps his hand in mine. They finally give up on separating us when Finnick growls something at them that I can’t hear.

They ask me to wiggle my fingers and toes and move my limbs about. To write out my full name on a piece of paper, then where I’m from and who’s in my family. Draw a clock. Follow the light with my eyes. Stick my tongue out and open my mouth wide. Press on my stomach where the girl from District 3 stabbed me. Does that hurt?

“Do you remember where you were before?” one of the doctors asks.

“The arena,” I say quietly. My throat starts to clog up and my eyes get sore and it’s hard to breathe.

“It’s okay,” Finnick says quickly. “You’re not there anymore.”

Help help help help I don’t want to go back please please please don’t make me go back please don’t –

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay,” Finnick says, eyes wide with concern. Must’ve been speaking out loud.

“You’re not going back,” Mags says. “You’ll never go back there ever again.”

I don’t want to, please, I don’t want to. Please don’t make me.

“Could you give us some space, please?” Mags says to the doctors. She must say something else or give them a look because it takes a moment for them to respond.

I don’t let go of Finnick’s arm for a very long time. He promises he won’t leave. And he doesn’t. He and Mags stay with me for years or hours or days or maybe all three. I get upset when Mags tries to pet my hair because I don’t want anybody to touch me when I’m like this not even Finnick but I can’t seem to let go of him. He doesn’t ask me to.


	17. Chapter 17

(ANNIE)

More doctors come to talk to me. They say they’re not regular doctors but head doctors but I don’t care and I don’t talk to them. They say that the film people need footage of me reuniting with my mentors. And I have to be wearing my uniform in it.

Mags is on her feet before I can even sob. She’s shouting at them or growling at them and I hold onto Finnick because he won’t let them take to I don’t want them to take me I’m afraid because I can’t put the clothes back on they’ll try to put me back in the arena I wore them in the arena I can’t go back there don’t make me go back there . . .

Finnick wants to argue with the doctors rather than letting Mags do it because he gets tense and he doesn’t want her to have to fight but he lets her do it cause he can’t leave me because he’s the only one that anybody listens to and he doesn’t want me to get hurt and I don’t want to get hurt and I don’t want him to go.

Mags wins the argument, and the film crew trudges out. Mags comes back and sits on the side of my bed. She says I don’t have to worry now and I should get some rest.

It’s another night before they let me leave. I don’t remember falling asleep or waking up but I know I must have.

I hang on to Finnick with both hands when we walk cause I don’t want to get separated cause what if I can’t find him again and I get lost in the trees and what if I can’t find my way out.

I don’t look where we’re going because I have to count how many steps it is from the hospital room to the apartment. I lose track at one point because Proteus is saying how he’s got this snack ready for when we get back to the apartment and – and – and – it’s ruined it’s ruined I have to start over and over and over it’s ruined I have to it’s ruined and it’s like fire ants crawling on my skin my skin doesn’t fit me right because my skin doesn’t fit me right I have to it’s ruined it’s ruined . . .

Finnick starts saying things saying soft things saying nice things but I can’t hear the words through my hands cause they’re over my ears but he keeps saying and then it’s a number he’s saying a number. He was keeping count of my steps, too.

My skin is still crawling with a hundred million bugs but it’s not as bad because I have the number. I ruined it but Finnick fixed it. So now it’s okay.

He counts our steps out loud with me the rest of the way so I don’t lose my place again.

I think maybe I forgot what the apartment looks like because it doesn’t feel familiar when I walk into it, like I’ve actually been there. More like when you dream about a place and it’s just a bit wrong but you don’t realize until you wake up. It is clean and empty. No people.

The dining table is set for a meal; I’m happy that we go straight there instead of breaking off or going into our rooms. Mags sits at the head of the table. I sit on her right and Finnick sits on my right. He pulls out our chairs for us and slides them back under the table once we sit down.

Proteus sets out a tray of pink triangles on the table before he takes his seat across from me. “Watermelon,” he says. “We don’t have anything like it back home.”

Finnick puts some on my plate before serving himself. “You’ll like it,” he assures me.

“Eat,” Proteus says. “You’ll feel better.”

But I don’t want to eat pink triangles. I pick the black seeds out one at a time with my stubby fingernails to count them. I get very absorbed in this because everything needs to be in order and be counted and everything needs to be in order. I come back out of my trance once the seeds are arranged in a perfect square and notice that there is a new fruit on the table. The fuzzy one that’s pink and orange. I don’t know who to thank for bringing them out so I don’t say anything.

The peach is sweet and juicy and happy and I have to smile while I eat.

Somebody comes out of the kitchen, walking slow. It’s the girl. The zombie girl the one with no tongue and nothing left a whole life scooped out and tossed away.

She sets a cup of tea down in front of me and smiles. I just stare at her. She’s a mutt now, isn’t she? Am I? She points at the tea and touches her throat with her hand. I touch mine, too.

“It’s to help your throat,” Mags explains. “It must still be sore.”

Greer’s eyes flicker to the ground and then back up to mine. She slinks back into the kitchen without turning around.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

We sit in the kitchen for a long time until there’s a knock at the door. “That’ll be your stylist,” Mags says to me. She puts her hand on top of mine and smiles. “Nothing to worry about.”

Somes opens the door.

The mean one, of course, who hates my forehead and my teeth and the one with green hair so bright that it hurts my eyes to look at and there’s the one that wants my hair. They go ahead into my room while Mags and Finnick talk with Beest, then we go into my room, too.

The team has started setting things up – the mean one is steaming a black dress on a freestanding hanger, the one with green hair is organizing some makeup on the table, and Pleased-as-Punch is suddenly bouncing over to me. I reflexively take a step back.

“Annie! Oh, it’s wonderful to see you. Beautiful as ever.” She reaches out at me and she’s going to grab me and to hit me and put her hand around my throat and squeeze and she’s going to make me hurt and I don’t want that and my hands crash into her shoulders and she loses her balance and crashes to the ground.

I want to run away but _my mother she butchered me_ I can’t because we’re stuck in the buildings now _my father he ate me_ because the sun and the rain and the flood is outside so it’s not safe to go out there.

I stumble backwards and knock into a wall – no, not a wall – Finnick Odair – and I hide behind him because he is big and solid and safe and he won’t let them. He won’t he won’t he won’t.

People are saying things and somebody is upset more than one somebody is upset. They’re shouting that there’s something wrong with me and what the hell did I do call a goddamn peacekeeper no call a doctor everybody calm down what the hell don’t tell us to calm down!

I stop hearing words. It’s just fuzzy sounds, like you’re hearing underwater. Underwater. In the flood. In the city. We’re in a city now. A city and someone wants to choke me. On top of me. And his eyes are brown until they pop and then they’re not anything.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

One of Finnick’s arms goes up and out like he’s telling somebody to stop or wait and his other arm comes around his back like a shell, partially shielding me but without touching me and that’s good cause I don’t want to be touched but I do want Finnick because he is big and solid and safe and he won’t let the hand choke me and he won’t let the water drown me and he won’t. He won’t he won’t he won’t.

(FINNICK)

I’m in a dressing room with my stylist and her assistants when one of Snow’s personal guards enters the room. The guards are handpicked Peacekeepers. They wear all black, including a long black coat, and have no visible weapons.

“Out,” says the guard.

My stylist ushers her helpers out of the room. She briefly outlines what she has left to do to get me ready before she runs off herself. I can see her deep, dramatic curtsey in the hall from the corner of my eyes. A few moments later, the president himself enters my room.

His smell, as always, announces his arrival. “Mr. Odair.”

“President Snow,” I say, dipping my head respectfully. I become conscious of the fact that I’m only half dressed. Maybe he wants to sample the goods for himself? No. He’s not that type of salesman. And though he facilitates it all the time, Snow doesn’t strike me as the sort of person that cares for prostitution in general. It seems too base for him.

“Leave us.” He doesn’t even look at the guard when addressing him. He sits down on the big leather sofa across from me and crosses his legs. “By all means, go on dressing.” I begin buttoning my shirt as he fusses with his white gloves. “Congratulations on your victor.”

“Thank you.”

“Your district will be very proud.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It has come to my attention that she may have some _issues_ ,” he says after a moment. Someone must’ve reported that she shoved one of her prep team to the ground.

“No. Not really.” _Yes. Very much_. “She’s just . . . having trouble adjusting.” And maybe that’s just what it is. But I don’t think so.

“The specific nature of her problems is not important at the present time,” Snow says. “It is important, however, that you keep your distance from her in the public eye.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighs like he’s dealing with a child. “I understand you’re fond of her and perhaps even protective. Perfectly understandable given the situation. But you are not to interfere while she is on camera. You are not to help her, not to make any of it easier. That’s not the sort of man Finnick Odair is.”

No, the illustrious Finnick Odair is not that sort of man, even if plain old Finnick is. “I understand.”

“Good.” He stands and buttons his jacket. “Frankly, I am not concerned with what happens off camera, so long as no one sees it.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m sure.” He cracks a slightly amused grin, which quickly fades, and steps toward me. “Congratulations once again.” There’s blood on his teeth when he smiles.

I sit in the front row between Mags and Beest. Eefa and Proteus are on Mags’s other side, passing a flask back and forth and laughing. This is odd because Eefa doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t go out in public spaces where there are a lot of people. She must be just drunk enough to tolerate it. Eefa doesn’t enjoy many people, but she likes Proteus. I think it’s because he can be anything anybody wants him to be in any situation; Mags once described him as a shapeshifter. Broadsea is nowhere to be seen.

“The president came to see me,” I say to Mags.

“What did he want?” Mags whispers.

“He wanted me not to interfere with Annie. Not publicly, at least.”

Mags sighs. She doesn’t need me to explain it to her. “Well, that’s all right. I ought to be the one looking after her anyway. I would already if she’d let me. But she only seems to want you.”

I grunt in reply. I do want Mags to help. I think I need her to. I’d like to help Annie, but I really don’t know how. Mags knows what she’s doing. She’s helped all the victors adjust after their wins, not just the ones from District 4. It’s why so many of us are devoted to her, even broken ones like the drunks from 9, 11, and 12 and the addicts from 1 and 6.

I don’t know why Annie’s latched on to me. The only reason I can think of is that I’m the first one she saw when she woke up. She seems to think she’s in physical danger, too, so it makes sense that she’d prefer me. As maternal as Mags is, as comforting as she can be, she’s not in fighting shape anymore. But I’m big enough to hide behind and mean enough to scare people off and yes, if it comes down to it, I can fight better than anyone.

But I don’t know if she’s capable of thinking like that right now. I don’t think she is. It’s more like her subconscious made a snap decision to trust me and that was that.

“How did the rest of the prep go?” I ask.

“All right.” She sounds too tired to get into it right now.

“Not well,” Beest says at the same time. The lights in the auditorium dim and we all applaud. “At least she tired herself out by the end,” he hisses.

Annie comes out in a little black dress with pearls all over it. Pearls are woven into her hair, decorating her face and shoulders. I wonder if she’s wearing Mags’s hairpin. She would look beautiful if she weren’t so scared.

I don’t notice she’s barefoot until Beest starts cursing her under his breath for forgetting her shoes.

Music is playing and the crowd is cheering. Annie holds up her hand to shield her eyes from the lights that beat down on her. She shrinks away from the noise. Caesar somehow draws her over towards him without touching her and without her paying attention. She scans the crowd rapidly; when her eyes fall on me, the terror on her face is gone, though only for a fraction of a second.

Caesar tries to kiss her on the cheek, but she jumps back from him. The expression on her face is one of terror. Caesar laughs it off and invites her to sit in the heavy throne they’ve brought out for her. She climbs on and sits with her legs crossed, pushing the hem of the dress higher up her thighs. “I guess it was good she insisted on wearing shorts underneath the dress,” Mags says to Beest. He grumbles.

When the crowd calms down, Caesar is ready to ask a few warm-up questions. I’m sure the doctors as well as his higher-ups have given him instructions on what to say and how to behave since she’s been acting so strangely – actually, I don’t think I’ve heard her say a full sentence since she woke up. So Caesar’s questions are simple, mostly yes-or-no, but there’s some room to expand if Annie wants to. She doesn’t. In fact she remains totally silent throughout the interview. Doesn’t even shake her head or nod in reply. Just stares out at the lights and the audience and the cameras.

“Not very chatty, I understand, stage fright and all that,” Caesar says. “I used to suffer from it myself.”

The crowd vocalizes their disbelief.

“It’s true! Thankfully, though, there are pills for everything these days! Ha, ha, ha!” The crowd settles down and Caesar begins the interview. “Are you excited to go home?”

Annie starts gnawing on her nails.

“You have a brother, I understand. Your twin, yes?” Still nothing. “Well, I’m sure he’s very excited to see you.” Nothing. Caesar tries one or two more questions before he gives up.

The recap starts up and Annie stares blankly at the screen for the first forty minutes. She cringes and shuts her eyes during the bloodbath. She doesn’t open them again, but she somehow knows when the footage cuts to the image of her counting the bricks in her cave. When the Careers creep inside.

The real Annie pulls her knees against her chest and begins to sing under her breath.

_My mother, she butchered me  
My father, he ate me  
My sister, little Ann-Marie, she gathered up the bones of me  
and tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper  
Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!_

I can’t actually hear her over the broadcast, but her lips form the words like they’ve been doing for weeks and that song is front and center in my mind the way it has been since she first started singing,

The moment comes where Gad grabs Annie’s hair in the cave and all hell breaks loose.

Annie – the Annie here and now, not the one on television – shrieks. She presses her hands over her ears and curls in on herself and _shrieks_.

Everyone jumps a little. Caesar, ever the professional, attempts to pat Annie on the shoulder and draw her back to reality. Touching her only makes it worse. She jumps away from him so quickly that she knocks over her heavy chair; it makes a sound like thunder when it falls down on the ground beside her. She remains there, huddled on the floor. Slaps her hands over her ears again and screams and screams.

I rise to my feet and surge toward the stage before I remember that I’m not supposed to help her.

She’s on her knees on the ground. Violent tremors wrack her body. Her eyes are pressed shut, but I can tell she’s not sure quite where she is. “No, no, no, no, no!” she sobs. “ _NO_!” Her voice is so high-pitched now that it cracks.

“Cut the feed!” Caesar commands one of his crew. “Keep the recap going but cut the feed of her!” He turns to the audience with a smile on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, please just afford us a few moments of patience.”

A handful of peacekeepers and doctors rush on stage as the lights dim. One of the peacekeepers picks Annie up, which draws a new, bloodcurdling cry of fear from her lips. Her eyes are wild as they dart about the auditorium. She flails desperately, trying to force the peacekeeper to drop her. But he holds on.

Her hands fly out over and over, attempting to scratch and cut but she can only scrape the armor with her fingernails.

The curtains close around the stage, blocking Annie from view. Her screams turn to defeated moans and then stop altogether.

I’m still frozen, gripping the edge of the stage. Watching helplessly. Mags puts her hand on my shoulder. Her other hand covers her mouth and there are tears in her eyes.

Caesar is saying something to the crowd as I force my fingers to unlock and realize my hands are shaking so hard that they’re practically vibrating.

People usher me and the other victors from 4 out as the recap starts up again; I put my arm around Mags. They blast the sound so that people can’t talk over it.

We end up backstage with a hodge-podge of peacekeepers with their helmets off, stage hands, Avoxes, and doctors. Caesar Flickerman is getting his makeup redone. Only a few people seem to be panicking.

“What is happening?” Proteus speaks in a sharper tone than I’ve ever heard from him before. “Where is Annie?”

“Please lower your voice,” says a female peacekeeper. “Annie Cresta is being returned to the medical bay for testing.”

“Testing?” I repeat. My tone makes it sound like I’ve never heard the word before. “She’s already been discharged.”

“Please follow me to your quarters,” she says calmly. She shepherds us into our apartment. “Please remain here while you await instructions.”

Proteus whips up a light dinner in the kitchen while I try to drink myself to death. Around the fifth drink, Mags yanks the crystal tumbler from my hands. “Enough.”

Greer and Somes start bringing out plates of food arranged like artwork. Proteus comes in from the kitchen and tells Somes what wine to serve with the meal. We all sit around the table, put our napkins in our laps, rest our forearms on the edge of the table (never our elbows), and eat in silence.

I open the window in my bedroom to hear the city outside. Most windows in the training center don’t open at all – there’s always a risk of a tribute jumping out – but mine cracks four inches.

But there’s nothing. No cheering from below. Not even drunken shouting or cars or trams. Just silence.

It’s a few hours before they summon us to the hospital. I try my hardest to sleep in the meantime but I just wind up staring at the ceiling.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of steam because I want to flesh out sexy Capitol Finnick more

(ANNIE)

When I wake up, I’m in a white tube. It’s small so small and I’m strapped down – arms, legs, body, even head. There’s a whirring, buzzing sound coming from within the walls. Then there are voices.

“Aw, shit, she’s awake.”

“Should we put her back down?”

I struggle against my bonds. Are they going to kill me? Why am I here? What are they doing to me?

“Yeah, she’s gonna fuss.”

There are footsteps now – coming toward me. I try to tear my arms out of their bonds but nothing happens. I scream. The voices yell to one another and I scream and I scream and I scream. I don’t want this. Finnick and Mags said it was over now and I was safe and I don’t think they’d lie to me but maybe they did or maybe they never said it at all _I don’t want to die_.

There’s a sharp pain in my right thigh. Then it goes dark.

(FINNICK)

We’re supposed to go back to that damn waiting room with the grey walls and floor-length windows and fake orchid.

I skulk around in the hallway after the others have gone inside, hoping to catch a moment alone with the female doctor who flirted with me. She comes out through a doorway which she locks behind her. She’s too distracted by the papers in her hand to notice me. I clear my throat and she looks up.

“Mr. Odair. Shouldn’t you be in the waiting room?”

“It’s a bit stuffy in their for my taste,” I say. “Especially after all that drama.” I straighten up and close the space between us.

“Yes, that was really something,” she agrees. Her eyes rake my body up and down. She has to turn away.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“I haven’t personally.”

“No?” I’m not nearly as smooth as I usually am. I’m too anxious to be charming. “Annie’s something special then.” I step up behind her and move her hair away from the side of her neck. “Like you.” I press my lips to the side of her neck and she nearly collapses. I keep my arms tight around her waist and pull her against me.

She gasps my name.

“Will you tell me something?”

“What?” she asks breathlessly.

I flick the tip of my tongue over the pulse-point of her throat. “What are you planning to do with Annie Cresta?”

“Anthea!” We both look up. Her male colleague is standing at the other end of the hallway. He’s a good ten years younger than she is, but he has an air of superiority about him. And he looks pissed.

The woman – Anthea, I guess – goes ramrod straight and tosses off my arms. “It’s not –”

“We need to talk,” he says simply, his glaring eyes locked on mine. Anthea hustles down the hall and through the door the male doctor came through. He and I maintain eye contact as long as possible, until the door shuts behind him.

I growl under my breath. “Fuck.”

I’ve definitely made things worse. If that other damn doctor hadn’t come in . . .

Mags is pacing around the room with one of her hands over her mouth when I come in. Proteus stands a few feet away from me, apparently deep in thought. Eefa has made a surprise visit, which she clearly regrets. No sign of Broadsea, but that’s no surprise. He’s probably passed out in his own puke by now. I normally wouldn’t care but I feel that since Eefa made it here, he should’ve at least tried.

Proteus raises an eyebrow at me, silently asking what I found out. I shake my head.

The same two doctors as before come out to speak to us after about twenty minutes of waiting. They’re much more serious. “She did suffer trauma to the head while in the Arena,” the man says.

“But you don’t think that’s what’s causing her issues,” Proteus says.

Anthea nods. Gone is the quivering woman in the hall, replaced with someone cold and angry. She’s going out of her way to not look at me. “The tasks we had her do when she first woke up didn’t indicate any neurological or physiological issues. We did scans, too, after her tantrum at the recap, and they didn’t show anything out of the ordinary.”

“ _Tantrum_?” I repeat.

“Then what’s wrong?” Proteus asks over me.

“We believe it’s mental illness,” the male doctor says.

None of us know what that means. We don’t have mental illness in the districts, at least not the words to describe it, but the Capitol has words for everything. They have enough leisure time to think about things like that, to come up with ailments to explain their every mood.

Our faces must betray our inability to understand because they take a different route.

The female doctor is the one to speak. “We are going to have Annie Cresta declared mentally insane.”

“ _What_?” I spit.

Proteus speaks over me again. “Isn’t that a bit premature? She hasn’t been out of the arena for long.”

“We believe a swift announcement is in her best interest at this time,” the male doctor says.

“Her closing interview with Caesar Flickerman has been canceled,” the female says, totally ignoring our reactions. She may have succumb to my charms and looks before, but now she seems immune. “President Snow will make the announcement during that time slot instead.”

I don’t know what to say.

“What would you like us to do in the meantime?” Proteus asks after a moment, voice totally neutral. The crease between his eyebrows is the only sign that he’s troubled by all of this. The only sign.

I could kill him.

“She’s currently under anesthesia, but I recommend you board the train back to your district soon,” the woman continues. “Before anyone gets wind of this.”

“Why?” Eefa asks, brows creased.

“What do you mean, _Why_?” I ask.

“Why are you declaring her insane? What exactly is wrong with her?”

“Why do you think?” I snap. The first thing I hear her say in a week and she asks something stupid like that?

“I’d like to hear the diagnosis,” Eefa says.

The woman doctor sighs and looks down at her clip board. She knows we won’t understand any of it. “She shows symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, attention def –”

Proteus holds up his hand. “That’s enough.” He has no idea what any of it means, either. “Eefa?” he asks, turning to her. She nods, satisfied with what she’s heard. Maybe she was making sure they covered their bases; we generally accept that mad people are mad, but you need real proof to declare a victor mentally insane before the whole country.

“There is one piece of permanent physical damage I ought to mention,” the female doctor says. “Due to the stab wound in her abdomen, she won’t be able to conceive or carry children. There’s too much tissue damage.” No one really cares about that right now. What we care about – what I care about – is getting Annie out of here without adding to the damage that’s already been done. “I thought one of you ought to tell her once you’re back in your district and she’s had a chance to calm down.”

“I think you should get ready to leave,” the male doctor says. “She’ll be up in –” he checks his wristwatch and bobbles his head as he does the math in his head “– ninety minutes, give or take.”

“Yes,” Mags says distractedly. “Yes, of course.” She blinks several times. “I’ll start preparing. And have Brae send for the train. Proteus, please get Annie’s stylist so we can get her ready to go.” The others go – Eefa practically sprints out – and I want to move, too, but my muscles won’t let me. Mags’s hand finds my shoulder. “She’s alive, Finnick. That’s what matters.”

I nod again because I can’t think of anything to say.

“Go. Clean up. Clear your head. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I just want to check in on her.”

When I get upstairs to our rooms, Greer rushes towards me and starts making a lot of gestures. I’m not sure what she’s asking until she runs her hand down her hair in a smooth, wavy motion. Like the way Annie’s hair falls.

“Annie?” I guess.

She nods.

I’m too tired to explain it all. “She’ll be all right.”

I start undressing before I make it all the way into my room, discarding my clothes as I go. Somes picks them up as he follows behind me.

I blast the water in the shower to its highest setting and make the temperature as cold as I can bear. I only take hot showers in the Capitol when I’ve just seen a patron. Different temperatures for different problems. It helps me compartmentalize. Keep my head straight.

I’m good at that. Compartmentalizing, keeping my mind focused on the task at hand. I always have been. A lot of victors simply can’t do that – it’s why they turn to drink or drugs. But I haven’t. And I won’t.

I don’t notice the slip of paper folded on my pillow until I start dressing. The paper is off-white and thick – the sort of expensive, heavy stuff they only use in the Capitol. I open it up, and the custom watermark at the top of the page informs me that this is from _C.X.S._

President Snow has left me a handwritten note of congratulations.

The others have all gotten them, too.

Mags says he always does for the victors of the winning district. Etiquette, she says, is the most important thing to Coriolanus. Not for the first time, I wonder how well Mags knew him when they were young.

Broadsea whips a lighter out of his pocket and sets the note on fire before dropping it in an empty metal bin. He hasn’t even opened it. Eefa drops her own note into the bin; Mags gives Broadsea her letter to burn, too. I don’t know if she’s read it. Proteus tucks his away in his jacket pocket and tells me to do the same if I want to be smart. I don’t have a reason to save it; I’ve already memorized every word. But I decide to keep it anyway. In case I ever need a reminder.

_Mr. Odair,_

_Congratulations on your very first victor. This is an exciting time for your fellow victors and all of District 4. It is an especially important time for you, as this is your first time mentoring a victor_.

Of course he adds a little statement of regret at the end of my note containing a veiled threat:

 _I hope that you will not be bogged down by the weight of responsibility. It would be unfair for anyone to expect a young man such as you to take on the burden of Miss Cresta’s care_.

It seems innocuous enough, but it’s another little reminder to stand back and just let things unfold. Men like Finnick Odair don’t get involved with that sort of thing, and girls like Annie Cresta never really go home.

_My best regards to you and your new victor,_

_President Coriolanus X. Snow_


	19. Chapter 19

(ANNIE)

My eyes open when I feel myself being lifted out of bed. My muscles are stiff and my eyes are sore. Someone has their arms around me and I start to writhe and I beat my fists against the body that holds me and they’re trying to hurt me, I know they’re going to hurt me –

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, it’s me! Annie!” I know his voice. He holds my wrists in his big hands as gently as he can to keep me from hitting him. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

My eyes finally focus on the face before me. Finnick. His pillowy lips and his bright eyes. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. I stop being scared for a moment because you can’t be scared looking at Finnick. Can’t be anything when you’re looking at him cause he’s everything.

He bends down a bit so he’s at eye-level with me. “It’s just me. Nobody else. All right?” He’s so _tall_. So handsome. “It’s just me. It’s Finnick.”

I manage to nod.

He lets go of my wrists, a guilty look on his face. “I’m sorry to wake you. We’re going home.”

Home. I try to repeat the word, but it clings to the inside of my mouth and instead comes out as an exhausted groan. I try to tighten my grip on Finnick but my fingers won’t listen to what I tell them.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I wanted to wait until the stuff they gave you wore off, but we have to be on the train before dawn if we want to avoid the cameras. Your team’s gonna get you changed and then–”

Beest and my prep team appear behind him and usher him out of the room before I can protest. My limbs are still heavy and slow, so they help me change my clothes. A long, plain skirt and a huge sweater with ribbon woven in. It has a wide cowl neck and the sleeves end at my elbows.

I start shouting and trying to push them away from me when they start to scrub my face cause there are too many of them and I don’t want to be touched and I don’t like how it feels but the morphling makes my limbs too heavy to move. Help.

The door busts open. Finnick. Finnick. “Hey!” He comes straight over to me, pushing the others out of his way like swatting flies. “Annie? Hey, hey, hey, you’re all right.”

Mags is beside him now, face creased with worry.

I’m shaky and sleepy. I want to go home now. Can we go home? Back to my nice safe bed, and I can pull the covers up over my head and be by myself and nobody will bother me because nobody can find me there. Yes. Let’s go home.

“Can you stand?” Finnick asks. Try to but my knees give out right away. Finnick manages to catch me before I hit the ground.

“Pick her up,” Mags says. “We’ll carry her to the train.”

Finnick looks at me nervously. “Can I?”

I lift my heavy arms in silent reply. He sweeps me up without ceremony and starts walking. He might as well be holding a glass of water for all the effort it takes him. I’m too fuzzy to get butterflies from the close proximity even though I think I should.

He smells nice.

I nearly start crying when he sets me down on one of the couches in the last car of the train. The ceiling and walls are all glass so I can see the whole world moving past. I’m tired and scared and the only time I feel safe is when he’s there. Thankfully, he doesn’t go far, just to the couch across from mine.

We’ve gone through the security field now; all the big defense guns are behind us and beyond them the elaborate Capitol buildings. Bye-bye. Won’t miss you.

“Can I brush your hair?” Mags asks. “My grandmother used to brush my hair before bed. It always made me feel better.” 

Trees start going by now, faster and faster with every second. How many seconds until I see the lake with those big metal lookouts on top? Until I see the _Harrington_?

Mags’s voice again. “Annie?”

And what about the ocean? Are the waves still capped white, still strong and beautiful? Or have the just become like the water in the arena?

“Annie?”

Finnick’s voice pulls me back to reality. He’s still sitting on the couch across from me. He leans forward deeply and I lean in, too, cause maybe he wants to tell me a secret. Mags is standing beside him with a brush in hand. She repeats her question and I shake my head because I don’t want anyone to touch me because it’s not safe and I don’t want anyone to touch me.

Mags just smiles. “Are you hungry? I can ask one of the Avoxes to bring peaches. You seem to like those.”

I nod my head. Finnick leaves the room for a moment to talk to someone and comes back in with an armful of the yellowy fruit. He dumps out his harvest on the couch beside me. He hands one fruit to me and another to Mags before selecting his own. He goes back to his couch across the room and plops down, taking a large bite as he does. The juice runs down his chin.

“Thank you, dear,” says Mags.

Finnick smiles in reply.

Mags would’ve been a great mother, but her only baby was stillborn. To this day, no one knows who the father was; she’d never say. The timing of its birth made some people think that the baby was conceived in the Capitol. That doesn’t really matter. She practically raised Finnick, though, and she’s a sort of mother figure to all the victors.

“There won’t be any cameras,” Finnick says to me. His voice is soft, but it’s enough to bring me out of my trance. “No crowds, either. They only told your closest relatives what time we’re coming in.”

 _Closest relatives_.

Bosun.

I burst out into tears just at the thought of his face. His green eyes and his floppy strawberry blond hair. I don’t know if the crying is happy or sad. I’m not sure if I even missed him or not. I’ve hated him hated him hated him so much in the last few years but I loved him a lot before Daddy died. But he did die, and then Bosun was cruel. He never laid a hand on me, but the things he would say to me hurt even worse but I can never explain it right so no one understands and he’s never like that when other people are around so nobody knows.

I don’t think I want to see him. I don’t think I want to see anyone. I don’t know anybody anymore.

The tears drain what little energy I have left and I soon fall asleep against the cushions.

I drift in and out of twilight sleep, half aware of my surroundings. People are speaking in soft voices; I hear the whole conversation but I don’t understand a single word of what they say. That would require me to concentrate and I can’t do that.

My body gets heavy and heavier but my mind is light and light and the conversation goes away.

I am a bird. I am flying high above the ground, keeping pace with the big train tearing through the woods. We are racing – the train and the pretty bird and what a pretty bird am I.

No. I don’t like the bird song anymore. I don’t want to sing it.

I make a whining noise without meaning to and Mags strokes my hair. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”

But I can’t. Not until I know if Finnick’s here. He should be here. If he’s here then I’m okay because he’s here so I’m okay because he’s here.

I crack my eyes open. He’s slumped in the couch across from mine, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back at a sharp angle, and mouth open. He’s sleeping, too. And snoring. And drooling.

I can’t help but smile to myself. Finnick Odair, the national standard for beauty, the most popular victor ever crowned, Panem’s favorite son, our district’s finest, the golden boy, is drooling in his sleep. He stirs when he hears me laugh. He straightens up, rubbing the soreness from back of his neck. He uses his free hand to wipe the drool from his face.

I shut my eyes just as he looks at me. I hope he didn’t see.

(FINNICK)

There is only one person waiting at the train station – not including the four Peacekeepers, led by a man we call Shark Teeth because of his big, toothy smile. A boy. Must be around Annie’s age. His hair is a light strawberry color, very different from Annie’s reddish brown. They share the same big, bright eyes. This must be her brother.

“ _Annie_!” he gasps when he catches sight of her.

Annie freezes in place.

He rushes forward with his arms open to embrace her. She squeaks something that I can’t quite make out and jumps behind me to use me as a shield from whatever attack she fears is coming like she did before her final interview.

Bosun’s arms slowly fall back to his sides. Shark Teeth has the decency to pretend he’s doing something else but two of the other Peacekeepers just stare.

There’s a long awkward moment of silence before Proteus steps forward and introduces himself. “Proteus,” he says, shaking Bosun’s hand. “It looks like we’ll be neighbors, assuming you and Annie live together.”

Eefa and Broadsea slipped off while no one was paying attention, leaving me and Mags as the only others to introduce ourselves.

“I’m Bosun,” the boy says. “Annie’s brother.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mags. This is Finnick.”

He looks at us for a moment, trying to figure out what words to use. “Thank you.”

Mags smiles softly. “You’re very welcome.” Bosun looks back to check if Annie’s still behind me. Mags distracts him with small talk. “Have you been to Victors’ Isle yet?” She starts talking about the houses and the landscape with enough animation that Bosun is sufficiently distracted.

I turn partway to check on Annie. She already seems more relaxed. She slowly inches out from her hiding place behind me and makes her way over to her brother. She steps back when he tries to hug her again but at least she’s not afraid.

She’s barefoot again. Did she even have shoes on when we got on the train? Does she even understand the concept of footwear?

Bosun looks back and forth between me and Mags to gauge our reactions – surely we of all people will know why she’s acting like this. Mags keeps going like nothing happened; I nod once to reassure him. It’s not that I’m an expert on his sister’s mental breakdown, but he seems to think I am because of the way Annie hid behind me. 

“I would love for the two of you to have dinner at my house tomorrow night,” Mags says. “But if you’d rather just be alone I understand.”

Bosun looks to Annie for her opinion but she’s lost interest in what’s going on around her. Her head is bent back so she can look up at the overcast sky. Her lips move but no sound comes out. I realize she’s counting the clouds.

“Sure,” Bosun says after a moment. “Why not?”

(ANNIE)

Bosun tells me all about our new house on Victor’s Isle as we march across the flat, sturdy wooden bridge that connects the island to the primary town, Mainland, and my feet get heavy.

District 4 is a strip of land – practically an island – with the sea on one side and the lake on the other. Two canals run through it, and the way they’re laid out divides the district into a few semi-islands connected by bridges. Mainland is the largest. It’s where the docks are, where all the longshoremen work loading and unloading ships. It’s where the market is, too, and the shops, and the school and pretty much everything else important.

There are two little islands in the District, too. One is the Rock, which is the worst place in town. The only things there are the group home and the hovels where most of the sirens live. There’s a little graveyard for the handful of people whose families want to bury them. It’s beside burner house where everybody else’s bodies are cremated.

The bridge that connects it to Mainland is narrow and shaky and more than half a mile long. I don’t like going there.

Then there’s Victor’s Isle, of course, which is nice houses and artful landscapes on one side and a forest and cliffs on the other. The bridge that connects it to Mainland is wide and well kept; it’s just under a quarter mile in length.

Bosun says our new house has three floors. There are four or so bedrooms, all on the second level. Bosun’s taken the master bedroom for himself. His things are all in there, though he hasn’t quite sorted everything out. He told me he started getting my room ready, but all the other rooms on the second floor are empty.

I’ve never had a room to myself before; Bosun and I have always shared. At my aunt’s house we slept in the loft. It was small, but at least we weren’t sharing with our terrible cousins – not that Bosun was the easiest person to be around. There was a mattress on the floor and a hammock hung from the ceiling; we’d switch off sleeping in each one.

We reach the Isle and Mags points out everyone’s houses. Broadsea’s is the closest to ours in the semicircle arrangement. Mags’s is directly across from ours. Finnick’s is beside it. “We’ll be just there if you need anything. And please, do tell us if you need anything,” Mags says.

I keep my eyes straight ahead as Bosun leads me to the house. He takes me on a little tour. The ground floor has a kitchen and a huge living room and two bathrooms and a little library I don’t go into. The second floor has bedrooms; Bosun has taken the master for himself. I don’t care and I don’t like this floor because there are too many rooms, too many places for bad things to hide.

“Do you want to see your room?” he finally asks. I nod.

He leads me toward a flight of stairs – the one that leads to the third floor. They’re much narrower than the other ones and slightly steeper, but it’s nothing too hard or unpleasant to climb.

At the very top of the stairs, there’s a door. “You can change rooms if you want. I just thought you might like this one,” Bo says, and opens the door. He steps into the room and gestures for me to enter.

It’s not as big as his room, but it’s still large. There’s barely any furniture – just an armchair and a chest of drawers and a bed. The bed has a metal frame with peeling white paint, and a metal sort of half-canopy set up over the area where the pillows are. There’s a woven net thrown over the frame piece to act as a canopy. It’s one of the nets Bosun and my cousins and I wove; I can tell from the material and the knots. The wooden floor is cold on my bare feet.

Across from the door, there’s an enormous bay window with a cushioned windowsill. If you look out, you can see the grass and the trees and beyond that, the beach. Its curved, though, so it looks out on the other victors’ houses too.

“Do you like it?” Bosun asks. I’d forgotten he was there. I nod wholeheartedly. “Good.” He waits in the doorway for a few moments longer while I explore the room.

“Big,” I say quietly.

“Is that bad?”

I shake my head. “Just . . . big.”

Bosun and I spend the night wrapped up in blankets on the couch. I even hold his hand at one point but not for very long because it’s not safe because maybe he’ll drag me down into the flood.

He eventually falls asleep but I don’t because I can’t. The dark scares me. And it’s worse since I’m in a new place. I should make sure all the doors and windows are locked but I’m too tired and too scared to move because there are all sorts of things in the dark and I have to stay very still so they won’t see me.

If something did happen, if I screamed for help, would Finnick hear me? I think so. And I think he would come to help me, too. He seems to me that he likes taking care of other people. Mags makes it sound like that, too.

I look out the window by the door at the other victors’ houses. I pick out Finnick’s and I watch it all night, even after his lights go out. It makes me feel better.

(FINNICK)

Bruises have formed along my chest and shoulder by the time I finish having dinner with Mags, angry purple splotches ringed with yellow that mark the places where Annie hit me this morning when I first tried to wake her. They’ll only look worse tomorrow.

I can’t stop staring at them. I can’t believe Annie made them.

She didn’t mean to hurt me; she was just afraid of the hands and arms around her. She didn’t know who they belonged to. It’s a natural reaction. But it’s still alarming.

I draw myself a bath and sink in as far as I can, which isn’t nearly as far as I’d like because the bathtub is too small for me. Water sloshes onto the floor as I settle in. I keep poking at the bruises to see how bad they are. I’ve certainly had worse, but these aren’t small or shallow. Annie struck me as exceedingly gentle before she entered the arena, like she might apologize to a tree root or a rock for stumbling over it.

It isn’t in shock, at least not anymore, and it’s not just trouble adjusting. Something really is wrong with Annie Cresta. I don’t know if _insanity_ is the right term for it but I know she’s not okay.

President Snow was right. It would be better if she’d died. Better for everyone, really. Better for her, too. At least she wouldn’t be stuck in limbo like this. She may even find peace.

I pray to God I won’t dream tonight. At least not about her. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annie meets the other victors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! Somebody temporarily ruined this for me (long story) but we're good now!!

(ANNIE)

There are nice clothes in my closet but I don’t want to wear them because I know they’re from the Capitol. And I’m not in the Capitol anymore and I don’t want it on me I don’t want it hanging off my skin.

I find one of my everyday dresses that Bosun brought along to the new house and slip it on. I always wear big shapeless dresses that go to my knees. I like them because they don’t get in my way – I can run around or work or sleep or do anything without them causing me any trouble. They’re long enough that I don’t have to worry about people seeing too much if I crouch or bend or climb, and the materials are simple and comfortable, and the fact that they’re so loose means I don’t have to keep adjusting them like I would with regular dresses. And I like that they’re dresses, too. Pants always trip me up, and I don’t like worrying about two different pieces of clothing when I can just wear one.

I don’t like being in this new bedroom, at least not yet. I don’t like being in this house. It’s too big. Too many rooms. Creaky floorboards and rusty door hinges. Too many places for something to hide.

I change as fast as I can and then run back downstairs. Bosun is pacing in a circle around the main room. He glances up at me. “Get changed; we’re gonna be late.”

I shake my head.

He opens his mouth and curls his lip like always does when he’s about to yell at me but he makes himself stop and take a deep breath to calm down because I think he knows he shouldn’t yell at me, at least not yet. He’s trying to wait a couple days to let me settle in before he starts up again. I hope he doesn’t start up again at all.

When things are good with Bosun, they’re great. It’s like we’re the only people in the world and we’re everything to each other. But then when I start counting things or get “stuck in a loop,” as he says, he gets annoyed and tells me to stop even though he knows I can’t. if I stop it feels like a million tiny ants covering every bit of my skin and I can’t move or do anything until I’ve finished counting.

He raises his eyebrows at me in some sort of prompt. “Ready?”

There are three big dogs in front of Mags’s porch that stare at us as we approach. I think of the dogs in the arena and start to pull away from Bosun, but he holds onto me. “They’re just dogs,” he says. “You can’t be afraid of dogs forever.”

Mags appears in the doorway. “Annie! Bosun!” She waves her hand at the dogs and they disperse. “Ignore them. They hang around wherever they think they can get food. They’re harmless.”

All the homes on Victor’s Isle follow a formula, but there are subtle differences in each. My new house seems to have less walls than Mags’s. Hers is artfully decorated and looks comforting and warm. She’s had almost sixty years to work on it.

“The others are already inside. I don’t think Eefa will make it, though. She’s not one for socializing.”

The others, including Broadsea.

Broadsea. He was a member of the Career pack during his Games. He betrayed them relatively early on – probably because he didn’t like working with other people and he didn’t want them out there working against him. Broadsea was on watch one night while his allies slept. He killed them each, one by one, by slitting their throats or stabbing them through the heart. 

One of them managed to get a knife and hack his face apart before dying.

I’m still lost in my thoughts when we find him in the kitchen.

“Annie, Bosun, this is Broadsea.”

And there he is – arms crossed over his enormous chest. He’s well over six feet and at least two inches taller than Finnick, who’s already taller than six feet, too. The best word I can think to describe him is sturdy. He looks like he could stand in one spot during a tidal wave and not even notice it crashing over him. He has hazel eyes and his jaw is strong and square and half his face is hardly a face at all.

That scar – it’s one thing to see on television, but completely different in person. He had some medicine to treat the wound, but not enough. The wound was infected. He did a piecemeal job of stitching it back together with threads pulled from his fallen allies’ clothing.

They cleaned it up as best they could in the Capitol, even removed some tissue and tried to build him a new cheek artificially, but it didn’t work. I still can’t believe he survived such a thing. Now it’s as wide as a finger from his right cheekbone to his jaw, where it dips under his chin and stretches down almost onto his neck. Ghostly pale against his coffee-colored skin. He grew a beard to partially cover it, but no hair grows over the corrupted flesh, so it just makes it stand out even more.

Not to mention the fingertips and toes he lost to frostbite. And the tip of his nose. But those have all been patched up.

He gives of us each a good up and down look before turning away without a word.

Proteus turns away from the stove to greet us and I feel a little bit better because Proteus is not scary or mean and I sort of know him. “Ah, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted your opinion on the sauce I made for the duck before I serve it.” He gives me and Bosun each a little spoonful of orangey-brown stuff. Bosun takes a lick and offers his compliments.

Finnick strolls in as we taste, completely ignoring Broadsea even though they’re about to walk right into each other. He stops for a moment and shoots him a mocking smile before he steps aside to let him through. Broadsea keeps on walking, knocking back another glass of liquor as he makes his way to the sitting room. Finnick is bright again as soon as Broadsea gone. “Do I get a sample?” he asks, flashing that winning smile.

He was fourteen when he was in my place. A child. But he doesn’t look like a child anymore. He was never exactly childlike, though; in the arena he was handsome and young with a chiseled face and sparkling eyes, his cheeks always flushed from being outside. He was gorgeous, and everyone was impatient to watch him grow up and therefor more handsome. And so they could touch him. So he could touch them.

I still don’t understand that – why he wants to jump from bed to bed. Surely the gifts they give him can’t be worth all the trouble. Is he just bored? Or is sex really _that_ good? Having someone flop around and sweat all over you doesn’t sound terribly appealing to me, even with someone like Finnick.

Finnick pulls me out of my mind when he sidles up next to me. “I see you met Broadsea,” he murmurs. He produces a handful of sugar cubes seemingly out of nowhere, pops some in his mouth, and stars crunching away. He speaks through the mouthful: “Don’t feel bad – he hardly ever talks. And he’s an asshole anyway.” He realizes something. “Oh, do you want some candy or sugar or something? I keep a stash in the pantry. Mags thinks it’s bad for me, but I’m nineteen, so what I eat doesn’t really matter.”

If only he knew what it was like to be a woman.

“You might as well sit down,” Proteus says to us over his shoulder. “I’m almost ready to serve.”

Proteus’s wife, Brona, is already seated at the oval dining table, which is made of reclaimed wood. 

Her clear, smooth skin is the color of honey and almonds, and she keeps her dark hair tied behind her head in a tight bun that pulls the skin on her forehead taut. Her mouth and teeth are big, but they fit better with her face than my big mouth and teeth fit with mine. She introduces herself and shakes Bosun’s hand. She doesn’t try to shake mine; somebody probably warned her about it.

I wonder how hard it must be for her and Proteus, to be separated from your love for the whole summer. Assuming they love each other.

It surprises me that so many victors have families – about a third of them, I think – but the fact that any of them has one is surprising. Any one of _us_ , now.

Eefa got married at nineteen – a normal age in the districts but unbelievably young for the Capitol – and had two children, but she only speaks to one of them now. Proteus is married, of course, which honestly seems odd to me. He and Brona appear more like friends than lovers, but even _friends_ might be too intimate a term. They don’t have children. On television, they always show Proteus next to a victor from District 5 who won a few years after him – the 55th Games, I think. He actually shows genuine fondness for the man; that’s obvious even through a televisions screen.

I wonder if Brona knows about this man. She seems very cold so I don’t know if she’d care.

We sit down and tuck in to eat. Finnick pulls out Mags’s chair and then mine and pushes them both in for us. He takes the chair between us and smiles at me as he settles in and my ears get red. Bosun is on my other side. Broadsea is directly across from me. I try not to look at him.

Proteus brings out a thick orange soup as our first course. He tells us what it’s made from but I don’t pay attention since the smell is so distracting. I start eating before everyone’s been served, which I think is rude but I don’t care. I slurp down two bowls and a fist-sized loaf of bread before anyone else finishes their first serving. I don’t care enough to look up at them or excuse myself.

I didn’t really eat today. Our kitchen isn’t stocked yet but I found some nuts and hid them in my pocket because I forget that there will be more food and that I don’t have to be hungry anymore _ever_. I haven’t counted them yet.

Bosun keeps looking back and forth from me to the other victors – trying to gauge my reactions to them and their reactions to me. He looks like he’s ready to leap across the table if he has to, though I don’t know why he would. He’s too smart to tangle with a victor. And he doesn’t even get into arguments with people he’s not related to. But he’s plenty argumentative with me and our cousins and Chelsea and me and me and me.

Broadsea observes me throughout the first course, which takes about half an hour for everyone to finish. He looks at me like some new trinket – strange and intriguing and more than anything else, a source of amusement. He’s continually eating hunks of bread which he tears from the rolls with his stumpy fingers (they had to amputate four fingertips above the knuckle after he won due to frostbite) and dips them in the soup. For every mouthful of bread he tears some off and puts it in his pocket. Maybe he forgets, too. About not being hungry anymore.

Finnick watches me too, but in a much softer way. His pretty green eyes are warm where his gaze touches my skin. He smiles whenever I do, and he’s quick with a story whenever there’s a lull in conversation. 

Proteus brings out the main course, which is made with duck rather than fish. People in District 4 get sick all the time from eating too much fish, so duck is a usual substitute, since that’s really the only other animal around except for seagulls. Duck is fancier than seagull. More expensive. But I guess that’s not a big deal since victors have so much money and we don’t ever have to be hungry anymore.

It’s served with turnips and Katniss root.

When I see it on the platter my stomach starts to roll over itself. My hands are shaking.

“Annie?”

I don’t know who says it. I don’t know who they’re saying it to.

I stand up fast, knocking my chair over and then tripping on it as I try to get away. I can’t be here. They’ll kill me to get my food. They’ll kill me for still being alive. I have to get away or they’ll kill me like they killed Piers and I don’t want to die but my legs aren’t working so I have to drag myself across the floor I can’t breathe.

“Annie! Annie!” It’s many voices now. They’re behind me, above me, closing in on me and I can’t _breathe_. I scoot back until my back slams against the wall. Put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear the mutts eating the boy from 6 or Piers screaming while they saw through him.

Bosun’s face is right in front of mine, saying “Annie? Annie?”

He’s not supposed to be here. His name wasn’t drawn. Why is he here? Why isn’t he home? They’ll cut his head off and they’ll poke out his eyes I’ll poke out his eyes and get goop on my hands and I can’t wipe it off.

“Run!” I scream at him. “Bosun, run! _Run_!”

And all the voices start screaming, “Annie!” too loud and I don’t like it.

I try to shuffle further back but my head hits the wall and it goes dark.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long!

(FINNICK)

I follow as Mags leads me upstairs, adjusting Annie’s unconscious body against my chest. Her brother is right on my heels, practically breathing down my neck, but he doesn’t say anything. He wants to carry her. He would’ve, too, if I hadn’t shoved in front of him to get to Annie where she lay on the ground. I don’t know that he’s strong enough to lift her, and more importantly, I don’t trust him not to drop her or injure her somehow.

Whoever his sister was before – she’s gone now. She died in the Hunger Games. Someone else came out and he doesn’t know her. More importantly, she doesn’t know _him_. She doesn’t even know where she is. The last thing any of us need right now is for her to wake up and attack whoever’s holding her.

Mags opens the door to her bedroom and ushers us inside. “Set her down on the bed.” I set Annie down as gingerly as possible; I can practically hear Bosun wince in anxiety. Mags motions us both aside so she can double check that Annie’s scalp isn’t cut or bleeding where it hit the wall.

I notice that Annie’s barefoot again. I’m certain she had shoes on earlier, though. Where they hell do they keep going?

“I don’t feel anything,” says Mags. “Let’s let her sleep.”

(ANNIE)

I wake up in somebody else’s bedroom. I know right away that I’m not in the Capitol or the Arena because there are pictures everywhere and fairy lights along the wall. I sit up slowly.

There’s a big window on the far wall that looks out at the cliffs and the ocean. One picture on the bedside table catches my eye. It’s Finnick with his arm around Mags’s shoulders. I remember seeing that on television as Finnick was coming home after his Games. Another picture shows Mags as a teenager when her hair was a mass of orange curls. This is Mags’s room, then.

I want to keep exploring but a wave of nausea hits me as I sit up. I make it to the bathroom in time.

I sit on the floor when I’m done, waiting for my stomach to settle before I risk getting up again. I slowly remember what’s happened. Why I’m here. I want to throw up again but there’s nothing left in my stomach. I slide onto the floor on my stomach and let the cool tiles calm my heated cheek.

My lips are dry. Gotta drink more water.

I drink cold wager right from the faucet and then splash some on my face and the back of my neck before going downstairs. I don’t want to be here anymore.

Halfway down the staircase I hear them talking.

“What do we do?” Bosun asks, voice strained with anxiety. “Do we call the doctor? Send word to the Capitol?”

“Proteus is fetching the doctor now,” a woman says. Probably Mags. “I think we should wait to hear what she thinks and go from there. Proteus will tell the Peacekeepers what’s happened, too, so they can relay the information to the Capitol.” There’s a pause. “You should know this, Bosun. They’ll probably declare her insane.”

 _Insane_.

That should make me feel something. But it doesn’t. None of this feels real. Nothing has felt real since the Reaping. Nothing will ever feel real.

Bosun sounds lost. “What?”

“There was talk about in the Capitol, especially after what happened during the recap,” says Finnick. _Finnick_. I calm down right away because it’s always safe wherever he is. “Mags and I convinced them to hold off for a while. See if she got better.”

“But she’s not better,” Bosun says.

They all soften up when I come downstairs and pretend like they weren’t just talking about me. I don’t want to be here anymore. “Go,” I say to Bosun.

“Okay. Sure.” He stands up from his spot on the couch and thanks Mags for having us over and tells proteus how much he liked the food. I don’t say anything to anybody because I don’t want to, even Finnick, and I walk outside and cross the grassy courtyard to the opposite side of houses.

Broadsea is sitting on the steps to his porch, cutting an apple with a knife and eating the slices off the blade one at a time. His dogs perk up when they see me; I flinch. Broadsea says something to them and they go back into the house. He watches us as we walk across the lawn and I want to scream.

The doctor comes to our house an hour later and tries to do an examination, but I won’t answer her questions and I won’t let her touch me, so she’s gone within five minutes. Bosun looks on with his arms crossed and a wrinkle in the center of his forehead. He’s concerned. Maybe even afraid.

Bosun and I share a bed like we did when we were little. He snores very loudly. The sound comforts me, assures me that I’m not alone. The darkness doesn’t bother me as much tonight.

 _Insane_. I know I’m unstable. I _feel_ unstable. It’s like I’m sleeping, trapped in some fever dream. I don’t know where I’ll be when I wake up. Maybe in the hammock at my aunt’s house. Maybe at the medical bay in the training center. Maybe I’m still in the arena, stuck underwater. Maybe drowning isn’t so bad, maybe I’ve been drowning all along and I just don’t know it.

I slip out of bed as quietly as I can. I walk until I’m at the front door, the grass, the beach. The water is glittering black.

I wonder if there’s anything on the other side of the ocean. I think there used to be places, other countries, but they tell us in school that they were destroyed with bombs and diseases and floods. No one lives there anymore. No one lives anywhere but Panem. So we all have to play our roles because if Panem falls there won’t be anything left at all.

*

I know that Finnick is coming. I’m not sure how, but I do.

I spend the day exploring the house while I wait for him. 

My room isn’t as scary when I wedge a chair under the doorknob so nobody can get in from the outside. It’s not too hard to climb through the window and up onto the roof, since I’m a very good climber now.

I spend a long time up there just looking around. I can see all the other houses from here; Broadsea’s and Eefa’s are the most interesting. Eefa’s got boards over some of the windows, leaving only tiny gaps between the slats too look through. We once learned about fortresses in school; that’s what Eefa’s house reminds me of. 

Broadsea’s house doesn’t seem like a house at all. He has tarps extending out from the doors and the front porch like he wants to expand the roof. He leaves a lot of things outside, mostly chairs and pots and other things for cooking. I think there are bedclothes, too. The little settlement on his roof makes me think he must hang out up there like I’m doing right now.

Eefa and Broadsea are the opposite of each other, I think. Eefa is afraid to be out in the open, and it seems Broadsea can’t stand the confines of his house.

Finnick comes close to sundown. I’m already waiting for him on the porch, counting the skinny black lines between the floorboards. He must think I don’t realize he’s there because he starts to say my name. I hold my hand up for him to be quiet until I finish counting.

Finnick is watching my face when I look up at him. “Come with me.”

We end up sitting on a big rock on the beach. I stare at the ocean and he stares at me.

Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it. I want to go back home.

Finnick’s eyes are soft. I won’t meet them, but they stay trained on my face. “Do you know what happened in the Capitol? Why they let you go early?” He waits for me to answer in some way, but I don’t. “The doctors don’t think your body is sick. They think the sickness is in your head. And that’s what the president told everyone.”

A sickness in my head. That’s how they explained my aunt’s condition to us when we were little.

Finnick is nice. To say it like that. That there’s a sickness in my head. Not that I’m mad.

I should probably feel something. Anger, confusion. But I don’t. I look at him, hoping maybe his face will show me what emotion to reflect.

But he can’t meet my eyes. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. The original broadcast was while we were on the train the other day; it was mandatory viewing. Your brother didn’t know what to tell you, so he asked me to . . .”

I don’t know how to respond. Annie Cresta, the tribute. Annie Cresta, the victor. Annie Cresta, the mad girl.

“Do you want to just sit for a while?” Finnick asks. He sounds uncomfortable. Should I have said something? _Did_ I say something? I don’t remember. I’ll just sit here for a while.

 _My mother, she butchered me. My father, he ate me_ . . .

*

Mags seeks me out the next day to finish the conversation Finnick started. There’s something he wasn’t comfortable telling me, she says, but I don’t know what could be more uncomfortable than telling me I’m insane.

There’s only one piece of real physical damage, she says. Internal. Ovary, fallopian tube, uterus – I can’t remember which one, but it’s damaged, and now I can’t have babies. Mags has tears in her eyes when she says it but I don’t know why because it doesn’t matter.

I never thought about babies, except when I was a little girl and made a ragdoll baby called Oona that my daddy made for me. I don’t know where she is now – she fell into the water one day and sank before I could fish her out.

 _Babies_. I’m only seventeen. I should have all the time in the world. I think I should be crying. But I’m not. I’m too young for babies and I don’t think I want them because they’ll go in the arena and never come out never ever and none of this is even real.

 _What a pretty bird am I_!


End file.
